The Judas Tree
by Swarovski
Summary: "So Mac finally decides to take a nap, and Homeland Security wants to put New York City on imminent alert?" Together with his team, Mac faces a lethal enemy – and a steady stream of hate mail from the Mayor's Office. What's going on?
1. The Crime Scene

**Disclaimer**: All CSI:NY characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS.

**Author's note**: This 17-chapter story shares many themes with my first fanfic, yet they're not meant to be related in any way. The scenario in this story is of course entirely fictional, just a figment of my imagination.

Thanks to mav32 for lending me a park in which to begin my story, and to Mahala for valuable advice on categories. All shortcomings are my own, naturally.

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><p>"<em>And yet if true, the story ring, By chance or by intent, Then Judas chose a glorious thing, To be his monument."<em> Edgar A. Guest

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><p><strong>Chapter 1 – "The Crime Scene"<strong>

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><p><em>This wasn't supposed to happen.<em> One Sunday morning in March, Mac Taylor was standing in the north end of Central Park, staring angrily up at the sky in an attempt to stop the sudden flurry of snowflakes by sheer willpower. It was barely eight o'clock, but already the heavens seemed to be conspiring to ruin his day. The morning weather forecast had inexplicably failed to mention the heavy snowfall that now was threatening to smother his crime scene. He coughed a few times into his coat sleeve as he checked his wristwatch, wishing he had had the foresight to wear a scarf. Everything seemed to be going from bad to worse for him that day. Had he known that only minutes later he would set off a chain reaction that would eventually involve the rest of New York City, he definitely would have stayed in bed. But then again, Mac was bound never to remember anything that happened that snowy Sunday, anyway.

The day before, he had been sprawled on his back fixing his leaky kitchen sink, when an old friend had phoned out of the blue, suggesting that they meet up for a beer in the evening. Unsuspecting, Mac had been pleasantly surprised and suggested a nearby sports bar, where they had met often over the years. When Mac arrived at the crowded bar, his friend had waved him over with a warm smile, leaving Mac even more unprepared for the truly awful news the man had sprung on him in the course of their conversation.

Coming home to his empty apartment just before midnight, Mac had been so shaken that he had poured himself a – for him extremely rare – large drink. Never before had anyone asked him to use his forensic expertise to commit an undetectable murder, something he of course had refused point-blank. With only a hallway lamp on, Mac sat for a while in the semidarkness of his living room, lost in his own thoughts, before finally going to bed. He slept unusually badly that night, dreaming vividly about his father, and when the dispatch about Central Park woke him just after six, he had been bathed in a cold sweat. Responding to the same call, Lindsay phoned him only a few minutes later. Danny had been out all night working a late-night gang-related shooting in Washington Heights together with Don, and Lucy was still miserable with a persistent cough.

"It's really not contagious," Lindsay had added apologetically, "but _none_ of the sitters are willing to come."

"No problem," Mac had mumbled into his phone, trying hard not to cough himself, since it would only complicate matters.

Pulling up the collar of his overcoat to shield himself from the snow, Mac took another look at the undergrowth of trees and bushes around him. He was standing at the foot of the Mount, a barren area located high above the cove of the Harlem Meer. Through the thicket of trees on his left, he could just make out the elaborate wrought-iron entrance gate and wisteria pergola of the Conservatory Garden. On his right, a string of lampposts lit up the footpath skirting the East Drive, a sylvan stretch of the Big 6 Mile Central Park Route for accomplished runners. The footpath looped 180 degrees along the west side of his crime scene, which was centered around a large ornamental cherry tree only days from bursting into bloom.

Not a breeze was stirring, and the heavy snowflakes were dropping silently, and almost vertically, from the sky. He stamped his foot on the ground, trying to assess if it was still cold enough for the snow to stay frozen, or if it would melt on impact, turning the soil into a giant chocolate milkshake. Either way, his expansive crime scene, marked out with bright yellow tape wrapped around a wide perimeter of trees and shrubs, would soon become a complete mess. He needed to pull himself together and hurry up.

The incessant barking from somewhere behind the cherry tree reminded Mac that the two NYPD officers were still taking a statement from the man who had made the discovery while walking his dogs along the footpath. Despite the sudden urgent need to secure the scene, Mac found it difficult to stay focused on the job at hand, and his mind kept revisiting the startling conversation last night. A door he normally kept firmly shut had been yanked open, and the memories that had been locked away were still tumbling out. The yapping dogs irritated him more than expected, and he realized to his chagrin that he had a headache. Unused to drinking as he was, he was still loath to admit that he actually had a hangover from two beers and a whiskey.

Mac squatted down to take a closer look at the mottled arm nestled in some wilted vegetation a few yards from the footpath, about fifty yards from the first limb that had been discovered. With one gloved hand, he set out a marker before pushing the soggy grass aside to examine the arm. Discovering that it was a right arm, he let out a deep sigh before photographing it with the camera he had resting on his knee.

"_Someone_ is out of his depth, here," came a familiar female drawl behind him.

Pulling off his latex gloves, Mac stood up and turned to face Jo, who handed him a steaming cup of coffee and set down her field kit. She whistled under her breath as she turned around slowly, taking in the large circular perimeter of crime scene tape. "You're kidding me! Either someone felled the Jolly Green Giant right here in Central Park, or you've got bodies or body parts all over."

"The last option." He accepted the coffee gratefully, holding it between his hands for a minute before taking an agreeable first sip. With any luck, the hot fluid would keep him from coughing while Jo was around. "What are you doing here, Jo? Where is Ellie?"

"Having a cozy Sunday morning lie-in." She studied his face, frowning slightly. He looked particularly tired this morning, but not entirely displeased to see her. "Where's Lindsay?" she asked.

"Danny and Don's Saturday night special in Washington Heights is still dragging out, and Lucy's sick. Some kind of cough."

"I heard about that. Poor kid. What does she have? Croup? Or whooping cough?"

"I don't' know. Lindsay said it was very contagious," he replied, before screwing up his face in an attempt to remember her exact words. "Or maybe she said it wasn't? I wasn't really paying attention."

"You have a lot to learn about kids," Jo laughed, shaking her head. "You haven't forgotten it's her fifth birthday next month, have you? Lindsay tells me you're Lucy's special guest of honor."

He smiled self-consciously at her. "How could I possibly forget? I've received both a Hello Kitty _and_ a Mimmy Kitty invitation."

She put her hands on her hips. "I'm _way_ impressed. Especially that _you_ can tell the difference."

"I can't. Lindsay explained it to me," he confessed with a sigh. "Something to do with where the bows are placed," he added, pointing earnestly to the top of his head. Jo looked utterly stunned, making him laugh briefly. "Well, she _did_ have my full attention that time. Cornered me in the elevator."

"So there is hope for you yet, Mac Taylor," Jo replied, brushing off some of the snow that had gathered on his shoulder. Without thinking about it, he absent-mindedly picked a few snowflakes from her hair, broadening her smile imperceptibly. Then he spun around abruptly and coughed hoarsely into his overcoat sleeve. Glancing up at her again, he didn't fail to notice her smile fade as she raised a disapproving eyebrow.

"How is it that you _always_ give yourself the Sunday morning graveyard shift?" she asked, looking concerned. "Surely, as the boss you can cut yourself some slack? Is it because you're the only one at the Crime Lab without a life?"

He rolled his eyes, slightly piqued by her suggestion. "I think what you meant to say is 'without a _family'_. It's not the same thing."

"No, of course not. My mistake," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Mac didn't reply. Looking a little forlorn, he stared across the crime scene, completely lost in his own thoughts. His mind was clearly on something else, and Jo could tell it had nothing to do with the case.

"Cheer up, Mac. Whatever it is, it might never happen."

He smiled ruefully. "It already happened long ago, Jo," he replied before turning to walk back along the yellow tape.

Grabbing hold of his coat sleeve, she stopped him and looked him in the eyes. _Do you want to talk about it?_ she asked wordlessly. He looked down at the ground and shook his head. _No, I don't._

She let go of his sleeve and let her arm drop. "Okay, so who called this in?" she asked instead.

He pointed in direction of the barking somewhere behind the cherry tree. "Two officers are still interviewing the guy who discovered the first severed limb. He's a professional dog walker, ex-army, lost two fingers in Kandahar. I guess only someone like that dares to walk along the Central Park Loop in the early hours of the morning."

"Aw, that's just sad, isn't it? Is that really all we have to offer our wounded veterans?" She listened to the dogs, trying to guess how many there could be, before exclaiming, "Oh no! Please tell me he had the sense to hold on to the dogs?"

"Yes, somehow he's still holding on to them all, despite his obvious handicap. He was completely unfazed by his discovery, says he's seen far worse. So far I've found a limb to satisfy each of the dogs, but I'm guessing there are still more spread around here."

Jo looked up at the sky. "Well, maybe we should ask him to just let go of them anyway. We could really do with some K-9 support here, if we want to wrap this up fast."

She noticed he was suddenly staring at the large tree right in center of crime scene, which had tiny ruby-colored buds growing right off its trunk and branches. Frowning, he walked over to the tree and peered up through the leafless branches at what looked like a cluster of giant flattened pea pods.

"When I first arrived, I mistook this for a cherry tree. It _was_ pretty dark at the time," he explained, slightly embarrassed. "I've been staring down at the ground ever since, looking for more body parts. And for a moment just now, I thought I saw something hanging from this tree," he added, pointing up at the shriveled pods.

"Well, I guess it looks like a cherry tree, but it's actually a redbud," Jo replied. "It's known for its beautiful flowers and really ugly seedpods. We used to have loads of them back home in Virginia." Picking off one of the little crimson buds, she stared at it thoughtfully between her fingers. "It's actually also called the Judas tree. Judas Iscariot was said to have hanged himself from it, making the tree's blossoms blush with shame. Really a perfect location for a crime scene, when you think of it." Turning her back to the tree, she added, "So, tell me what have you got so far."

He sighed. "First, the left foot discovered by the dog walker over there." He pointed to the far end of the footpath skirting the outside of the crime scene tape. "Then a right foot near those bushes, and a lower leg right here under this Judas tree. Then a left arm and a right arm in the grass right on the other side, and finally a _second_ right arm about twenty yards that way, again close to the footpath." He pointed in the direction of the arm he had just photographed.

"Oh, a pot luck. My favorite!"

"Before you get all excited, Jo, I think this is just a prank," he said, pausing briefly to cough again. "Everything I've found so far is consistent with exhumed and dismembered corpses from a cemetery. None of the limbs appears to have been embalmed, however, so they're all in serious decomp."

"So this really _is_ the graveyard shift," she marveled, before turning to him with a stern face. "Mac, you've been coughing like that for _days_," she exclaimed, unable to contain herself any longer. "I think you've at least got bronchitis, if not pneumonia. You look terrible, so go home and get some rest. Let me call in Danny and Don to help us secure the scene as soon as they're done in the Heights."

"I'm fine, Jo. It's just a cough, not exactly debilitating."

"And you actually have a doctor's word for that?"

He shook his head wearily. "My doctor is in Jamaica on his honeymoon."

"The last time I checked, Sheldon isn't the _only_ doctor in New York City."

He rolled his eyes. "I don't need a doctor, Jo. I keep telling everyone. It's just a _cough_."

"Mac, I've heard that you were once hospitalized with pneumonia. Apparently, you were telling everyone you were fine, and the next minute you just collapsed. Afterwards, Stella had to stay with you for _five_ _days_ just to make sure you really were all right. It was a couple of months before I arrived at the Crime Lab, and I don't intend to just stand around and watch it happen again."

"I'm sick and tired of hearing about that old story," he replied sourly. "I _don't_ want to talk about it now."

For some reason, any mention of the incident always made Mac particularly grouchy, and Jo realized it had been a mistake to bring it up. She had just given him an opportunity to take offence and use it as an excuse to build a wall between them.

"Given where these limbs were placed," he said, indicating a wide circle in the air with his finger, "I'd almost say someone is _deliberately_ making this hard for us. We need to split up and bag what I've already marked so far, before we look for anything else. I'll start with what's over here by the footpath, in case we have more dogs coming this way." He turned and pointed towards the far end of the crime scene. "You go and join the officers over on the other side." He turned back to face her. "Okay?"

"What's that on your face, Mac?" Jo asked, having suddenly noticed two small cuts on his cheek, close to his ear.

"Shaving," he replied vaguely, his eyes already fixed on something over her shoulder. Behind Jo's back, a man in a gray sweatsuit was standing beside the path about 15 yards away, watching them intently while doing stretches against a tree. He had a drawstring hood over his head and a black scarf wrapped around the hood, covering his mouth.

"That's _never_ from shaving," Jo replied, oblivious to the man behind her. Her fingers were already turning Mac's face to get a closer look. "You're forgetting what line of business we're in, so don't try to kid a kidder. I can see right through you."

Mac gently pushed her hand away. "Great. If you've got x-ray vision, then you'll know that I'm not sick." If the man had come along the path, he would have passed close by the severed arm Mac had just photographed. Mac stared at the stranger suspiciously, his instincts telling him he wasn't just standing there purely out of idle curiosity. Their eyes met for a few seconds, and then the jogger turned around abruptly and began running down the footpath.

Mac followed the departing figure with his eyes, his eyebrows suddenly raised in surprise. "Sheesh. What's _he_ doing here?" he muttered.

Turning around, Jo only caught a glimpse of the jogger's back as he disappeared into the woods. She turned back to face Mac, wondering briefly if he had used the stranger as an excuse to change the subject.

"I need to get back to that arm," Mac suddenly said, extracting a large plastic bag from his kit and pulling on a new pair of gloves. "You go and bag what's on the other side of the Judas tree. Ask the officers to help you find the markers." While Jo left to join the two officers, he walked back along the crime scene tape to retrieve the arm.

"What the hell -?" he exclaimed, startled to see a bright orange party balloon, looking very out of place against the snow-specked background. It was hovering about a foot above the ground, swaying and bobbing very slightly like a king cobra, its string trailing across the severed arm. Perplexed, he walked over to the balloon and checked instinctively for any footprints that had veered off the path. Had there had been any, though, they had already been blotted out by a fluffy layer of fresh snow. He craned his neck and looked up at the slate-gray clouds above his head. Had the balloon really descended from the sky?

Like most high school students, Mac was familiar with Charles' Law and knew that the volume of a gas is directly proportional to its temperature, which means that when the temperature of a gas decreases, its volume decreases as well. Already calculating swiftly in his mind, he tried to estimate what effect the cool ambient air above would have on a balloon's buoyancy, if it had indeed floated out of a child's hand. Expecting the balloon to have deflated slightly, he bent down to grab it with both hands. But as he brought it up to his face to have a closer look, he immediately realized his assumption had been wrong. The overstretched balloon burst between his hands and – partly from sheer surprise – he sneezed loudly.

Alerted by the two tiny explosions, Jo and the two officers suddenly emerged from behind the Judas tree, their guns already drawn from their holsters. Jo's jaw dropped when she saw the limp orange balloon and string hanging down from Mac's gloved fingers. Speechless, her face registered both shock and surprise before she laughed out loud and re-holstered her gun. "Mac, what on _earth_ are you doing? Are you playing games with us? Where did that balloon come from?"

"I have no idea, but it _didn't_ fall out of the sky," he fumed, stuffing the remains of the balloon into his coat pocket. "Another prank, I guess."

She giggled again at his expense. "If you were a cartoon character, there'd be smoke coming out of your ears right now, right?"

"If I were a cartoon character," Mac replied, pointing down at the muddy ground beneath him, "there would be a giant _crater_, right about here." Coughing hoarsely again, he bent down and put both hands on his knees for a moment before he was able to regain his breath. Jo went over to him and put a reassuring hand on his back.

"I've already spoken to Danny," she told him softly, when he was done coughing. "He and Don are finished and already on their way over. Danny is ready to take over from you, and Don will drive you home."

Still slightly winded, Mac straightened up slowly and glared at her. "Just because I let you get away with it _once_," he growled, unwilling to admit his defeat, "you can't make a habit of sending me home from crime scenes."

Noticing that much of the color had drained from his face, she stood her ground. "Watch me, Mac."

Two figures had already emerged through the curtain of falling snow and were approaching them along the footpath. The shorter one was carrying a crime scene kit, and the taller one waved heartily to Jo as they came nearer.

"You're outnumbered now," Jo said.

She braced herself for Mac's indignant protests, but he just stood with his hand against his chest, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Their eyes met for a moment, and she saw that he was on the verge of dismantling the wall he had just built, in order to confide in her. But then he appeared to change his mind and raised his hands in defeat instead.

"Okay," he said simply, making her hair stand on end. Without another word, Mac picked up his field kit and ducked under the yellow tape to join Don, who was waiting for him with his hands on his hips, smiling broadly.

Danny came over and stood next to Jo, watching the two men walk back along the footpath towards East Drive, where he and Don had parked next to Mac's Avalanche.

"I don't like what I'm seeing here," she said with a frown. "Methinks he doth protest too little …"

"Methinks you're a difficult woman to please, Jo," Danny added.

As the two figures were gradually swallowed up by the falling snow, Jo noticed that Mac seemed a little unsteady on his feet. He was already trailing a few yards behind Don, who was carrying his field kit now.

"That's never just a _cough_," she muttered, more to herself than to Danny. "You're in _such_ trouble now, Mac Taylor," she added, unaware how soon she would come to regret these words. She turned to Danny with a sigh. "I'm so glad I asked you guys to put everything on hold in the Heights." She had just glimpsed something in Mac's eyes that she had never seen before, when it came to his own health. There was no doubt in her mind. He had been worried.

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><p><strong>Next: Chapter 2 – "The Victim"<strong> Don drives Mac home (again)

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><p>So what's going on here? Let me know if you want to find out more.<p> 


	2. The Victim

**Author's note:** A special thanks to those of you who kindly reviewed my first chapter.

Okay, let's get this story moving! As with my first fanfic, I've packed in a lot of action before the inevitable happy ending. And, yes, you might want to keep in mind that this all ends well, because it's going to be a bumpy ride, so remember to fasten your seat belts.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2 – "The Victim"<strong>

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><p>Don Flack waited for his reluctant passenger to hand over his keys and fasten his seatbelt, before he started the engine of the Avalanche and pulled out on to the wintry East Drive. While Mac had retrieved his field kit from the crime scene, Don had exchanged glances with Jo, who had conveyed her unease with her eyes. As Don turned and began walking briskly back towards the cars, it took him a moment to realize that Mac had already fallen behind after only a few yards. Feigning concern about slipping on the icy path, Don slowed down to an easy saunter before holding out a helping hand to his friend.<p>

"Hey, let me carry that for you," he offered, and Mac unexpectedly handed him the case without a word.

Walking side-by-side in silence, they had followed the sloping footpath down to the road, their footsteps muted by the snow that was still descending through the tall trees on either side of the path. When they reached the parked Avalanche, they had both stomped off the snow caked on their shoes before getting in. Don noticed the mud spatter on the cuffs of Mac's pants, and wondered how he had managed to work so diligently if he was feeling this unwell.

Although the Sunday morning traffic was far from heavy, driving to Mac's address proved to be an unexpected challenge. Caught out by the sudden change in weather, many less experienced drivers were already skidding and sliding through the slushy streets. Don had been looking forward to chatting with Mac before dropping him off, but he found that he had to keep his eyes on the road most of the way. The few times he glanced over to his right, Mac had his head turned the other way, looking out of the passenger window. What little Jo had told him about the Central Park case had piqued Don's curiosity, but his instinct told him not to press Mac for details right now.

"What's with all this snow, huh?" he said lightly, trying to get a response from his sullen passenger. "I don't remember this mentioned on last night's forecast. It's almost Easter, and suddenly New York is a winter wonderland!"

"At least your crime scene was indoors," Mac replied without turning his head.

Don laughed. "Did you happen to meet the groundhog responsible for this, while you were poking around in the dirt back there?" He pointed over his shoulder towards the Mount with his thumb. "Because I hope you read him his rights and took him into custody, right there on the spot."

Mac glanced over and smiled briefly. "Why do you think I let you carry my case?"

Leaving Central Park near North Meadow, Don drove down the busy avenue before turning onto a quiet, tree-lined side street. Billows of steam from an open manhole were wafting across the asphalt, and two cars had evidently collided in the mist. The drivers were engaged in a none-too-friendly discussion that was about to degenerate into a fistfight any minute. On any other day, Don would probably have felt obliged to pull over to settle things, but today he didn't want to delay getting his sick friend home.

"Traffic will be calling in all their off-duty officers on a day like this," he rationalized aloud. "I'll just leave it to them."

Wincing, Mac started coughing into his sleeve. He put his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.

"You should have seen the scene up in Quisqueya Heights," Don said. "What a mess! Danny collected nearly a _hundred_ bullet casings from the bathroom alone, but _none_ of the neighbors I talked to heard a thing."

Mac opened his eyes again. "Yeah, we've had too many of those, lately."

"Danny reckons these guys deserve a Darwin award for taking themselves out of the gene pool."

Mac smiled weakly before surrendering to another coughing fit that left him heaving for air.

Don glanced over briefly. "You okay, there?"

Looking paler than ever, Mac nodded unconvincingly. "I just need to lie down, that's all."

"Pneumonia again, you think?" Don's brows furrowed in concern.

"It's _not_ pneumonia," Mac snapped, his physical discomfort finally getting the best of him. "You'd _think_ everyone would _trust_ me to know the difference." He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the headrest.

Don sped up and overtook a couple of slow-moving cars illegally, before getting stuck behind a snowplow that inexplicably seemed to be parked in the middle of the road. He honked his horn several times, before reversing and inching forward between the plow and the oncoming traffic. Then a fortuitous wave of green traffic lights ushered them right through to Mac's address only a few minutes later. Don was grateful to find a parking space close to the front entrance of the building.

"Mission completed," he announced happily, leaving the engine running. "We're here now, Mac. Those were my orders." He glanced over at his passenger, who hadn't stirred or acknowledged their arrival.

"Mac? Are you asleep already?" he added, a little surprised that Mac could have fallen asleep on such a jarring drive through the city. "C'mon, you're not going to make me carry you up, are you?"

Having always figured the head of the Crime Lab to be a light sleeper, Don was taken aback that Mac still hadn't noticed that they were parked.

"We've been through this before. Are you _really_ going to make me say it again?" He paused for a moment, waiting for a reply. "Are you holding out for milk and cookies?"

Reluctantly, Don killed the engine and took a long, hard look at the man sitting next to him. Mac appeared genuinely to be asleep, and it almost looked like only the seatbelt was keeping him upright. In this weather, the Central Park dispatch had been a particularly nasty call, Don conceded. His own preference had always been for going to bed in the middle of the day after a busy all-nighter, rather than responding to crack-of-dawn calls that left a lingering fatigue all day long. Mac had been coughing for a few days now, and could easily have pushed himself too hard by working this scene on his own. It was a good thing that Jo had taken the initiative to stop by to lend a hand. She always seemed to have a sixth sense for when she was needed.

"Mac!" Don raised his voice to a shout. "Hey, Mac! Wakey, wakey. Stop fooling around." A woman walking past the car stopped to give them a disapproving stare before hurrying down the sidewalk, her cell phone clutched in her hand. Don groaned inwardly. All he needed now was someone to call this in as suspicious. Mac would be mortified if an officer suddenly knocked on their window, asking them what was going on.

Rubbing his face with both hands, Don debated how to deal with this unexpected situation. Aside from being a long-time colleague, Mac was also one of his closest friends, which perhaps accounted for why he felt shy about touching him now. A dedicated professional, Mac took great pride in never being sick and was still indignant about having succumbed to pneumonia two years earlier. It was already bad enough that Don had driven him home again, and the last thing Don wanted was to embarrass Mac by startling him in his own car. Eventually, he settled for poking Mac's shoulder, gently at first and then more forcefully, but still he got no reaction. He recalled Sheldon once mentioning something about twisting a person's earlobe, but he couldn't bring himself to do it to Mac.

Making up his mind, he pulled abruptly into the steady stream of traffic without indicating, ignoring the angry honking behind him. With one hand, he dialed Jo's number and put the phone on speaker in its holder on the dashboard.

"Jo, I can't seem to wake Mac," he said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as he could. "I'm sure he's just dog-tired, but I think I'll do him the favor of taking him to see a doctor. You know, just in case."

"Good call, Don," he heard her say. "It could be pneumonia again. Poor Mac, he must somehow be particularly susceptible this time of year. Don't worry too much, though," she added reassuringly, having somehow picked up on his anxiety after all. "I happen to know Sheldon gave him a complete physical two weeks ago, and Mac's in great shape. He didn't seem all _that_ bad when I got here, and he can't possibly have gone downhill that fast. He's probably just exhausted. Has he said anything?"

"Nothing, except for insisting that it's _not_ pneumonia."

"He really is the stubbornest mule I've ever had to work with. How's his breathing now?"

Speeding through midtown traffic once again, Don stretched out his right arm and held his fingers under Mac's nose.

"It's really hard to tell while I'm driving, Jo. Shallow, I'd say."

Having narrowly overlooked a stoplight, Don slammed on the brakes and skidded to a sudden stop, throwing both of them forward against their seatbelts. Don saw Mac's head loll to the side, and he no longer looked like he was just asleep. With his eyes on the road again, Don sped up while reaching out blindly to put his hand on his passenger's forehead.

"Jesus, I think he's got a fever, as well! Jo, I think Mac actually _is_ going downhill fast, after all. I'm just a few minutes out from Trinity General right now. Could you do me the favor of stopping by, as soon as you're done?" He laughed uneasily. "I need your protection when Mac wakes up from his nap and finds out he's in the _ER_. He is _so _going to _kill_ me!"

Jo's brief chuckle didn't sound very heartfelt, either. "Okay, Don. We'll try to hurry up here and meet you at the hospital as soon as we can."

Don glanced over at his lifeless passenger again and switched on the siren. Leaning forward and craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of the hospital high-rise down one of the one-way streets on his right. By toggling the siren switch on and off a few times, he cleared the slow-moving cars ahead of him and the pedestrians milling around Trinity General. Then he accelerated up the inclined driveway towards the ER and screeched to a stop in the no-parking zone directly in front of the entrance.

"Mac!" he yelled and grabbed his friend's arm. Sliding his fingertips frantically across Mac's wrist, he finally detected a rapid, irregular pulse. Then he pressed his hand against Mac's chest and gasped when he discovered there was no movement at all. He swiftly unfastened both seatbelts, and Mac slumped forward against the passenger door. Still holding on to his arm, he pushed open his own door with his foot and yelled at the top of his lungs, "I need help here! This man isn't breathing!"

A few seconds later, the passenger door was yanked open, and Mac's unconscious body was pulled out by two pairs of hands working efficiently in tandem. Don leapt out of the car and raced around the hood, his adrenaline surging. Mac was lying on a gurney now, his arms hanging down limply, while an EMT was compressing a bag valve mask held tightly against his face. Dazed, Don nearly stumbled as he trailed behind the small team of emergency professionals rushing the gurney in through the entrance doors.

By the time they reached the trauma resuscitation room, a nurse had already pulled off Mac's coat and jacket, and was using scissors to cut through his shirt and undershirt. As soon as he was pulled across to the ER table, a doctor put his hands together and began administering CPR while counting aloud. Don's eyes fell on the tiny crucifix Mac wore around his neck, and the realization hit him that his friend was teetering on the brink of an abyss and was about to fall off the edge. His knees almost buckling, Don took a few involuntary steps into the room, but several outstretched arms flew out to stop him, and someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards.

"What's _wrong_ with him? Is he going to be all right?" Don heard himself ask repeatedly, but his voice was drowned out in all the commotion, and he received no explanation or reassurances.

Now someone with a clipboard was doggedly asking him questions about Mac's medical history and the onset of his symptoms. He answered mechanically, while keeping his eyes glued to the erratic heartbeat on the cardiac monitor. A nurse rolled a crash cart to the table and was extracting adhesive defibrillator electrodes, when Don briefly lost sight of Mac again behind the crowd of people in the room.

"Clear!"

The emergency physician immediately resumed the chest compressions, and to Don's infinite relief the heartbeat on the monitor appeared regular again. Together with a nurse, the other doctor gently pulled Mac's head back, opened his mouth and replaced the mask with an endotracheal tube. Then the nurse held Mac's arm in the air while a chest tube with a drainage bag was inserted below his armpit. A moment later, a milky-looking chest x-ray was clipped onto a wall light box. Don saw the doctors exchange stunned looks before one of them urgently picked up an emergency phone. Suddenly the activity in and out of the room increased ten-fold, and a red light began flashing in the hallway. Now Don noticed several people staring at him with concerned expressions on their faces. Finally, two people wearing protective facemasks jostled him into an adjacent exam room and asked him how he was feeling.

Meanwhile, back at the Central Park crime scene, Jo and Danny had finished bagging the six body parts found by Mac, as well as the additional arm and lower leg they themselves uncovered in the snow. To their relief, the new limbs were consistent with Mac's theory of two disinterred and dismembered bodies from a cemetery. Of course, this would still be subject to Sid's expert verification back at the M.E.'s Office, but it looked increasingly likely that it was all just someone's idea of a morbid prank.

After Don's phone call, though, Danny noticed how Jo kept checking her cell phone, her concentration on the severed limbs waning considerably. After ten minutes, he suggested to her that they also put their second crime scene on hold and drive directly to Trinity General. Jo gratefully nodded her agreement, and Danny sprinted over to inform the two sullen officers that they would be back to finish up later.

As he sped along East Drive, Danny realized that although the snowfall had finally let up, the weather was still going to be problem. The snow had blown in drifts across the Central Park roads, obliterating all surface markings, and ahead of them a car missed a sharp turn and ended nose-diving into a shallow ditch.

"I sure hope the snow plows are out this morning," he said, trying to slow down without braking on the icy road, before accelerating again. "They should be clearing the roads between the Park and Trinity right now."

"No, try to avoid the snow plow routes, if you can, Danny," Jo interrupted, putting her hand on his arm. "I heard on the morning news that Sanitation is intentionally working slow today to protest the Mayor's decision to reduce staff. Traffic is going to be backed up all over the city."

"Sheesh," Danny shook his head in disgust. "He won't be reelected if he goes on making unpopular budget cuts like that. I bet he thinks his opponents fixed the weather."

"Don did the right thing, of course," Jo said, her mind already elsewhere, "taking Mac to the ER to get checked out. But it can't possibly be serious. I mean, Mac couldn't have worked for two hours in the snow if he was _really_ ill, could he?"

Danny wouldn't have put it past his boss to persevere that long, but he didn't volunteer this opinion to Jo. She hadn't been there two years ago, when Mac, who had been overworked for months, had suddenly collapsed at a crime scene, leaving a panic-stricken Stella to call an ambulance. Ignoring all medical advice, Mac had then discharged himself the next day, and Stella, furious now, had stayed with him for several days to get him back on his feet. Things had never been the same between the two of them after that, and Stella had abruptly left for New Orleans only a few weeks later.

"You're right, Jo," Danny said reassuringly. "He probably just needs to rest. Hawkes is just going to have to keep a better eye on him, when he gets back."

Jo tried Don's number once again. "He's _still_ not answering," she said, even more frustration creeping into her voice. "How far can he possibly _be_ from his phone?"

"Maybe they made him turn it off at the hospital," Danny suggested, glancing briefly over at her, before swerving to avoid two pedestrians trying to cross the busy snow-logged street far from a crosswalk.

"'But it's not _off_, Danny. It just keeps going to voice-mail."

"Well, then Flack's probably got his fingers in his ears, being chewed out by Mac right now. He _hates_ being fussed over."

When the phone in Jo's hands suddenly rang, she jumped in her seat, her eyes meeting Danny's for a few seconds. _Unknown caller_.

"Danville," she said, before listening for a minute and nodding several times, her eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned down into a frown. "Yes, that's the correct location. And yes, there are still two officers at the scene," she said, exchanging baffled glances with Danny.

"Well, it's hard to be precise in this weather," she continued, looking around her, "but I guess our ETA at Trinity is about 20-25 minutes. Our exact location? We've just left the Park, and right now we're turning into East 96th, heading for FDR." She listened again. "That's not _exact_ enough for you?" Scowling, she watched Danny turn on the police radio. "Yes, I copy that. I'll keep my phone on for you to track us. We'll keep an eye out for you."

Danny waited impatiently for Jo to finish her conversation, before switching on the siren and revving up the engine. "What the hell was that all about?" he asked, glancing nervously at her, while pointing to the radio. "Apparently, there's some kind of emergency going on somewhere in the city, but no one knows what it is."

"_That_ was a Special Agent from the DHS Science and Technology Directorate," she replied incredulously. "He asked us to rush to Trinity General as fast as possible. DHS is sending a vehicle to escort us the rest of the way, and a chopper to Central Park to pick up the two officers. Apparently, there's talk of upgrading the NTAS alert for New York City to imminent, and it all somehow has something to do with Mac." She turned to Danny, the color draining from her face. "I'm getting this awful feeling that Mac was right. It's _not_ pneumonia, after all."

"No kidding, Jo!" Danny cried out, his hand clamped to his forehead. "Mac finally decides to take a nap, and Homeland Security wants to put New York City on imminent alert? Is it just me, or is that just a _teensy tiny_ bit over the top?"

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Chapter 3 – "The Weapon"<strong> We find out what's wrong with Mac


	3. The Weapon

**Author's note:** Welcome back to The Judas Tree! Thank you very much for your reviews.

So have you worked out what happened to Mac yet? Well, whatever it was, I can tell you it took place right under your (and Mac's) noses back in in the first chapter. Hint: go back and look for the word "partly" in chapter 1 – it explains _everything_.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 – "The Weapon"<strong>

* * *

><p>Following closely behind the unmarked DHS vehicle with the flashing orange beacon on its roof, Danny Messer drove up the steep driveway towards the ER at Trinity General. Both vehicles stopped thirty yards short of the actual ER entrance, which was blocked by a wide, circular perimeter of striped barrier tape. At the center, Mac's Avalanche was parked at an angle with both of its front doors flung open wide. Three people wearing white, hooded hazmat suits and full-face respirators were gesticulating to each other, apparently in disagreement on how to process the car. One was sitting behind the wheel, adjusting the seat, ready to drive it up onto the back of a reversing flatbed tow truck. The other two were still busy swabbing the passenger door and seat, and were waving their hands in the air in protest.<p>

"What's going _on_ here?" Danny exclaimed, yanking the handbrake before switching off the engine. "It looks like the moon landing!"

His and Jo's car doors were suddenly pulled open, and Danny flinched as someone wearing a respirator reached right over him to release their seatbelts. Stepping hesitantly out of the car, he turned his head to look at the commotion all around them, before being nudged forward towards a small side entrance to the hospital building. Looking behind him, he saw the suited figure lean into their own car and unfold what Danny recognized as a plastic air-sampling bag.

When he finally caught up with Jo, who was being jostled along ahead of him, someone repeatedly asked them, "Do you understand why you're here?" His confusion gradually giving way to irritation, Danny kept replying, "No", but no explanation was forthcoming. After being marched along a conspicuously empty hallway, he suddenly found himself standing alone in an exam room.

Two serious-looking nurses entered and held out a red plastic biohazard bag for his clothes. Danny undressed self-consciously and quickly donned the light blue scrubs and slippers that they offered him instead. Then they asked him to put his wristwatch, wallet, cell phone, keys, wedding band and necklace in an autoclave decontamination bag. One of the nurses sealed both bags and handed them to someone outside the room. Picking up a clipboard, the other nurse asked if he during the past 24 hours had experienced any symptoms such as coughing, chest pain, shortness of breath, fatigue, muscle aches or fever.

"No," Danny answered obligingly six times in a row, while she scribbled his answers on a form. "Are those Detective Taylor's symptoms? Where is Detective Danville? Is she all right?"

Instead of answering, the nurse startled him by inserting a nasal swab into one of his nostrils.

"_Hey_!" he exclaimed, despite having done exactly the same thing dozens of times himself. "Do you _mind_?"

A young doctor entered and put a tongue depressor in his mouth, before peering into his throat with the aid of a penlight. Then she placed her stethoscope against Danny's chest and back, listening intently as he inhaled deeply, before a radiologist came in to take several chest x-rays on a large portable machine in the corner of the room.

"Hey, I need to call my wife!" Danny demanded, before being told to calm down. "Where are Detectives Taylor and Flack? Are they all right?"

"You _have_ to let me call my daughter!" he suddenly heard Jo's voice call out on the other side of a set of swing doors at the far end of the room. He pushed through the doors and found his colleague pacing the floor of another exam room impatiently, clad in identical light blue scrubs and slippers.

"_Why_ won't they tell us anything?" she asked him, flinging her arms out in frustration.

Another nurse entered and requested them to follow her down the corridor to a large, sparsely furnished hospital room. "Please wait in here. Someone will be with you shortly," she said as she turned to leave. It didn't escape their attention that she set the door lock on her way out.

Seated at a table in the center of the room was Don, his light blue scrubs several sizes too small for his lanky frame. Hunched over with his elbows on his knees, he was staring glumly down at the floor between his feet. When he saw Danny and Jo, he jumped up, the tension in his face replaced by an overwhelming relief.

"Boy, you have no _idea_ how glad I am to see you!" he exclaimed and hugged each of them in turn.

"Are you all right, Flack?" Danny asked. "Where's Mac?"

"He's on life support in the ICU. That's all I know." Don shook his head grimly, looking crestfallen again. "I'm so sorry I let everyone down. Mac stopped breathing just before we got here. I've been trying to recall exactly _when _it was_,_ but I guess I was too hell-bent on getting here. Every time I close my eyes, I keep seeing that damned road, not Mac's face."

Danny slung a comforting arm around his friend's shoulder. "Hey there, buddy, I'm sure your driving saved his life."

"Oh, my Lord," Jo said solemnly, still trying to absorb the terrible news. "This is so much more serious than I had imagined. How could Mac possibly have gotten so sick so _fast_?"

"Well, whatever he's got, it's _really_ serious," Don replied. "I watched as his heart nearly failed in the ER. I was so sure he was on his way to meet his Maker."

"You're looking a little shaky there yourself," Danny said, concerned.

"I swear," Don declared, a little breathless, "if I'm asked just _one_ more time whether I have flu-like symptoms, I think I'm going to keel over."

"Take it easy, Don. Sit down." Jo put her hands on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down onto one of chairs beside the table. "You're in shock, acute stress. That's very understandable." Sitting down next to him, she filled a plastic cup with water from a pitcher on the table. "Here, drink some water."

"I've already had some water," he said and pointed to an empty cup on table, "but it feels more like I've drunk a hundred cups of coffee." He reached out and emptied the second cup in a single gulp.

"I just don't understand what happened," Jo said, shaking her head slowly. "One minute, Mac and I were chatting about Lucy's birthday, and the next minute he can hardly stand upright. How is that even possible?" She remained pensive for another minute. "DHS obviously believes it has something to do with the crime scene at the Park. Maybe the limbs Mac bagged were contaminated with a virus or something?"

"Well, whatever it is," Danny answered, "it doesn't look like we've caught it. None of us has the symptoms they're asking us about."

"Oh no!" Jo's hand suddenly flew up to her mouth, and her eyes widened in horror.

"Oh my God, Jo! What is it?" Don jumped in his seat, alarmed by her sudden outburst.

"I just remembered that I told Mac he was the only one at the Crime Lab without a _life_." Her voice faltered briefly. "How could I have been so _cruel_?" she whispered, closing her eyes.

"Hey, hey, take it easy," Don put his arm around her shoulders and gently held her head against his chest. "Mac's going to be all right. He always is. Just you wait and see." He squeezed her hand lightly. "You couldn't _possibly_ have known what was about to happen. None of us had any reason to suspect anything like this. Obviously Mac didn't realize what was happening, either."

"I sure hope he didn't," she answered, taking a deep breath. "That would just be too awful."

"Flack is right, Jo," Danny added. "You said yourself that Mac was in great shape. We're going to have to assume he's going to pull through this, whatever it is."

For a while, the three of them just sat around the table in silence, their conversation temporarily exhausted. Without their wristwatches or cell phones, the minutes seemed to crawl by at an agonizingly slow pace. While Jo remained seated at the table, studying the back of her hands thoughtfully, Danny got up to pace the floor before stopping by the window to watch the sleet falling from the sky outside. Nervously tapping his slippered feet under the table, Don began balancing all of the plastic cups on top of each other to keep his hands busy.

"Exactly how _long_ do you think they're going to leave us here?" Jo suddenly exclaimed, and Don's tower came tumbling down. "The nurse said someone would be coming by _shortly_, right?"

"Maybe she meant to say someone _short_ would be coming by," Don suggested, as he leaned down to retrieve the plastic cups from the floor.

Danny turned away from the window and stared back at his colleagues. "Sheesh," he exclaimed, pointing down at his scrubs. "Just look at us. We look like three _smurfs_."

"Well," Jo sighed, "at least they had the decency of separating us before making us strip."

"Oh, I don't know that it would have been _so_ terrible," Don replied, briefly catching Jo's eyes.

"Well, I'm grateful for these scrubs," Danny added. "I can just see Mac waking up to find the three of us standing _naked _at his bedside. Can you imagine the _look_ on his face?"

"He'd definitely fall out of bed," Don replied dryly. "Sensory overload."

"This is _so_ like an episode of the Twilight Zone."

"Wake up, Danny," Don exclaimed, holding his undersized, light blue sleeves outstretched. "This _is_ the Twilight Zone!"

At that very moment, almost as if on cue, the door opened and a dour man wearing a dark suit and tie briskly entered the room, causing Danny and Don to exchange stunned glances. He had his jet-black hair in a military haircut, and the corners of his mouth were set in an almost permanent frown. He looked at the three of them with a faint air of boredom before glancing down at a thick file of papers in his hand.

"Are _you_ in charge, here?" Jo asked him. "I urgently need to get in touch with my daughter. She's on her own."

"You'll have time for that later_. _Right now, we need you to answer some questions for us first," the man replied. "I'm Assistant Director Williams of the DHS Office of Counter Terrorism here in New York City. You should know that you've all been cleared of any suspicion of infection."

"What's going on here?" Jo demanded, her hands on her hips now. "Could you please tell us where Detective Taylor is right now? Can we see him?"

He shook his head. "Detective Taylor is currently in the ICU receiving treatment for an acute inhalation anthrax infection."

"_Anthrax_?" Danny exhaled loudly, sliding down into a chair next to Jo. "Oh boy, this just gets worse and worse every minute."

"If you're from Counter Terrorism," Jo asked, her eyes narrowing, "does that mean DHS thinks it was some kind of _deliberate_ infection? Not an accidental contamination?"

"I'm sorry, I am not required to share this kind of information with the NYPD Crime Lab," Williams replied. "It's strictly on a need-to-know basis, and right now you don't _need_ to know."

Don eyed the man warily. "Doesn't it make _any_ difference to you that it is our colleague who is the _victim_ here?"

"Until proven otherwise, our assumption will be that Detective Taylor was targeted as a random member of the public." He sighed loudly, put both his hands on the table and stared intently at the three detectives. "Did Detective Taylor receive any anonymous letters this morning?" he asked wearily. "Maybe he didn't realize their significance?"

"You're talking about the head of the _Crime Lab_, for crying out loud!" Jo threw her arms up in the air in exasperation. "_Surely_, he would have understood the significance of an envelope full of powder, don't you think? Look, if a crime has been committed here, the NYPD Crime Lab has a right to be involved."

"Nope." Williams' smile was unmistakably condescending. "In accordance with the Citywide Incident Management System, the Mayor's Office of Emergency Management has appointed Homeland Security as the lead agency on this. We will bring the NYPD Counterterrorism Division into this to the extent that we deem necessary, but I can tell you already it won't be necessary to involve the Crime Lab."

"But for hazmat incidents," Jo countered, "the CIMS protocol recommends a unified command under the NYPD."

"Yes, but _not_ for class A pathogens like anthrax," Williams replied. "Read the fine print, Detective Danville. Only Homeland Security has the capacity to deal with anything like this. We'll be shipping everything we find at your crime scene down to our lab at Fort Detrick, which has a higher biosafety level than your Crime Lab."

"Just hold on a minute!" Jo raised her voice for the first time. "The Crime Lab has jurisdiction over the Central Park crime scene. As far as we're concerned, Detective Taylor has just become a part of our already ongoing investigation!"

"I don't care what you _think_," Williams snapped, "the protocol between our departments is clear. Detective Taylor's case is within our jurisdiction now, not the NYPD's. And as a part of the NYPD, you're not authorized to investigate his case any further. It's just like you would leave putting out a _fire_ in your Crime Lab to the _Fire Department_, right? Do me the favor and check your facts next time, Detective Danville."

Seeing Jo speechless with anger, Danny and Don immediately jumped to their feet and began quarreling loudly with Williams.

"What the _hell_ is going _on_ here?" a voice suddenly boomed from the door. Williams instantly fell silent and looked uncomfortably down at the table.

Another man in a dark suit had entered the room, glaring at them all disapprovingly with his hands on his hips. He was both older and shorter than Williams, but was clearly a man of unquestioned authority. Balding and with a neatly trimmed gray beard, he wore round bifocal glasses that made him look slightly owlish. Following closely behind him came a heavyset middle-aged man with his hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his white lab coat.

"I'm Director Henry Pantone of the DHS Counter Terrorism Office," the older man said. "And with me I have Dr. Jonathan Hendricks, the Dean of the Center for Infectious Diseases here at Trinity General."

"I see you've already met Jerry Williams," he continued, before sitting down beside them at the table." He is my Assistant as well as our Chief NYPD Liaison Officer. You'll have to forgive us if Jonathan and I can't stay too long, but in an hour we're expected to advise the DHS Commissioner and the Mayor on whether the NTAS alert for New York City should be revised."

Pantone looked at them wearily as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, took off his glasses and wiped them meticulously. "I know Mac Taylor as a man with an admirable sense of integrity and duty, and I want you to know I share your concern for his wellbeing. Naturally, Homeland Security will do everything in our power to find out who did this to him."

"We already have several incident teams out retrieving evidence in an attempt to reconstruct what exactly happened," he continued. "But we still urgently need _your_ help to understand the kind of threat we are dealing with here. Are you prepared to help us?"

"Yes," Jo answered on behalf of the NYPD detectives in the room. "Of course, we'll help your investigation."

"Good. Before we begin, however, I have to inform you that Jonathan and I will divulge information to you that is _highly_ classified. You are not permitted to disclose to _anyone_ that Mac has been infected with anthrax, unless Homeland Security is instructed by the Mayor to make this information publicly available. Is this clear to you?"

Jo, Danny and Don nodded gravely.

"Good. I realize that I'm supposed to ask you to sign non-disclosure agreements," he added apologetically, "but Jerry and I are both ex-NYPD ourselves, so your word will of course be sufficient for us." Ignoring an irritated glance from his Assistant, Pantone smiled amicably. "Okay, now that we've got that out of the way, let's begin. I believe you have some questions for _us_ first."

"Well, how about _you_ start by telling us how Mac is doing?" Don asked, before giving Williams a hostile glare. "Assistant Director Williams hasn't exactly done a good job of _liaising_ with us, so far."

"You'd better answer that question, Jonathan," Pantone replied, pointing to the doctor sitting beside him.

"Detective Taylor has just been moved from the ICU to our isolation ward," Hendricks said. "He is stable and appears to be responding to conventional post-exposure treatment so far. But as you probably are aware, anthrax is one of the most lethal pathogens we know, and it is far too early for a prognosis. But please rest assured that our infectious disease specialists are among the best in the country and are doing all they can to help him recover."

"But what _exactly_ happened to him?" Don asked. "He suddenly stopped breathing as I was driving him to the ER."

Hendricks paused before answering. "Well, the rapid onset of Detective Taylor's symptoms is unlike anything we've seen before. The anthrax spores he inhaled apparently caused fluid to build up in his chest, which eventually interfered with his breathing, causing him to lose consciousness and his heart to beat arrythmically. As you saw for yourself, we were able to prevent him from going into cardiac arrest, and are currently still in the process of draining off the pleural fluid."

"So he's going to be all right, then?" Don said hopefully.

"Timing is critical here, because antibiotics have to be administered _before_ the anthrax bacteria release their toxin into the bloodstream. We won't know for another 24 hours if we succeeded. In that case, he should be feeling much better in a few days' time. _If_ Detective Taylor survives, it'll mostly be due to your own quick thinking. It was fortunate that you were so close to the ER when his condition became life-threatening."

"Isn't there some kind of anthrax vaccine, used by the military?" Jo asked.

"Well, yes, there _is_ a vaccine," Pantone answered, "and DHS has an entire warehouse full of antibiotic medkits to distribute centrally to pharmacies, in the event of a large-scale bioterrorist attack. But both are based on the most prevalent strain we've seen until now, the one used in the contaminated post-9/11 letters. We don't know yet if they would have an effect on this particular strain."

"The strain that has infected Detective Taylor appears to be altered," Hendricks added. "We've already flown reference samples down to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for genetic typing. We urgently need to determine if is a naturally occurring mutation or if it has somehow been genetically engineered. This is what we call weaponized anthrax."

Feeling slightly dizzy from anxiety, Danny was glad he was sitting down. "Could you just make one thing perfectly clear? Are the three of us infected in any way?"

"No, you've all tested negative," Pantone answered patiently, "and so did the two police officers at the scene, as well as the dog walker who made the 911 call this morning. We're still tracing each of the dogs back to their owners, but so far they have all tested negative, too. In addition, meteorological data confirms that it was completely wind-still at your crime scene this morning. Therefore we don't suspect a large-scale airborne dissemination, thank goodness, but instead a single, specific source. Our incident team is still taking environmental samples at the Park, but so far they haven't located the source yet."

"You have to understand that although anthrax is extremely infectious, it's not at all contagious. I'm assuming that as CSIs, you understand the difference." Hendricks turned to Don, who still looked confused. "To be infected, you would have to have been exposed to the same source as Detective Taylor, not just have touched or talked to him."

"But then why is he in the _isolation_ ward?"

"Oh, _that_ was at Henry's request," Hendricks replied, indicating the older man sitting beside him. "For now, even Detective Taylor's _presence_ at this hospital is classified."

Jo looked thoughtful, her brows creased into a frown. "Can you tell exactly _when_ Mac got infected?" she asked Hendricks.

"No, that's what we're still trying to work out. My staff found microscopic traces of anthrax spores on Detective Taylor's face. Assuming he washed his face at some point this morning, we know it happened some time afterwards."

"I don't know," Danny said skeptically. "None of us noticed any fine powder on his face."

"In the case of the contaminated letters," Pantone explained, "a silica powder was used to disperse the spores in the air. We're looking for a weapon that can disperse the spores without the use of a powder."

"But it still doesn't make sense," Jo gasped. "How could Mac have got infected this _morning_? He's been coughing for _days_."

"Yes, he coughed a lot last evening, as well," Pantone muttered, shaking his head sadly.

"Detective Taylor presented at the ER with a mixture of symptoms, which unfortunately delayed his diagnosis," Hendricks explained. "The symptoms of his anthrax infection were masked by a chronic upper respiratory infection. Bronchitis."

"To find the source of the infection, we need to work backwards from his arrival here at Trinity this morning," Pantone said, turning to Don. "We already have his car in our custody, but I need to be absolutely sure. Did the airbag on the passenger side deploy at any time during your drive here from the Park, Detective Flack?"

Slightly baffled by the question, Don shook his head. "Well, it was a bumpy ride, and I had my eyes on the road most of the time," he conceded, "but believe me, I _would_ have noticed something like that."

Pantone then addressed Jo. "Detective Danville, I understand you were together with Mac at the crime scene. Did he at any point begin showing signs of a more serious infection?"

"No. Well, yes, maybe. Oh, I don't know," she sighed miserably. "What I mean is, I don't really know _exactly_ when it was, but he did seem to get worse, like he was out of breath. I'd say it was perhaps twenty minutes before he left."

"I understand from our incident team that there is crime scene tape demarcating a large area. Did either of you leave this perimeter at any time after you arrived?"

"No, we both stayed inside the tape the whole time."

"Did you notice anything unusual happen before Mac's symptoms got worse? Please bear in mind that the anthrax spores would have to have been aerosolized for him to inhale them. It can't be a matter of simple transfer."

"Oh … my … God!" Jo cried out, as the answer suddenly hit her. "There was that _balloon_, of course," she exclaimed. "I didn't _actually_ see it happen, but I think a balloon burst between his hands at the crime scene. It'll probably still be in the pocket of his overcoat."

"C'mon, Jo," Don chuckled, "are you really telling us that Mac – a former Marine – was attacked and nearly killed by a _balloon_?"

"You have _got_ to be kidding us!" Danny snickered, glad that the tension in the room had finally been broken.

The moment the two detectives saw the horrified faces on the two DHS Directors and the doctor, their laughter stopped abruptly.

Williams jumped up from his chair and was already heading for the door, while Pantone gestured with his thumb for him to hurry up. "Jerry, get someone to locate that overcoat, _now_!"

"At the Office of Counter Terrorism, our job is to think the unthinkable," Pantone explained to the detectives, after his Assistant had left, "which is why we always work with many different parallel scenarios and risk assessments. As I mentioned, inhalation anthrax _must_ be aerosolized to be infectious. So far, we've mainly focused on ventilation ducts, exhaust fans and high-speed mail-sorting machines, but balloons is actually also a scenario we've considered. We never thought it actually possible, I have to admit, but it looks like we'll have to revise our thinking now."

"Balloons?" Don repeated, drawing a little circle in the air with his finger. "Are we really talking about killer _balloons_ here?" He glanced at Danny. "_What_ did I tell you?"

"You were right," Danny conceded. "This _is_ the Twilight Zone."

"Yes, I know it sounds far out," Pantone agreed, "but just imagine the impact if balloons could effectively spread anthrax. Try to look at it from a terrorist point of view and think of the panic potential: children, crowds, parties. Just two words here: Macy's Parade. Need I say any more?"

"Oh God, no," Jo whispered, her hand over her mouth.

"Can you think of how the balloon got to your crime scene?" Pantone asked. "I'm assuming, of course, that Mac didn't bring it with him."

"When I arrived," Jo replied thoughtfully, "I actually met Mac at the _exact_ spot where he later found the balloon, so it couldn't have been there the whole time. For some reason, he was _adamant_ that it hadn't descended from the sky. Maybe he saw footprints in the snow? I'm starting to believe he thought someone had intentionally left it there."

Pantone looked skeptical. "Well, was there anyone else at the crime scene? I thought you were alone."

"Yes, apart from the two officers, Mac and I were alone. We would have seen anyone who … Wait!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her forehead. "There _was_ someone else there, _just_ before Mac found the balloon. A jogger!" Her eyes widened as she recalled Mac's exact words as he looked over her shoulder. "And Mac _recognized_ him!"

The stunned silence in the room lasted a full minute.

"Are you sure, Detective Danville?" Pantone finally asked. "He couldn't have been mistaken?"

"Mac has a great memory for faces. He wouldn't have said it, unless he was certain."

Hendricks and Pantone exchanged worried glances. "Do you realize the significance of what you're telling us? Someone Mac _knew_ placed the balloon there. Did he tell you who it was? Think carefully, this is _very_ important, as you can imagine."

Jo shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm absolutely sure he didn't say who it was, just that he recognized him."

"Well, did _you_ recognize this person, Detective Danville?" Pantone asked. "Would you be able to pick him out from a photo?"

"No," she replied shaking her head, as she tried to recall the snowy scene in the Park. "I just saw the back of the jogger as he ran away. He – at least I _think_ it was a he – was wearing light gray sweats and a dark gray or black scarf. It could have been anyone, really. I wasn't paying much attention at the time, I'm afraid."

Williams came in through the door looking grim. Uncertain whether he should speak in front of the three NYPD detectives, he waited for Pantone to nod his consent. "The balloon tested positive. It's definitely our weapon."

"Please excuse us," Pantone looked at his watch and rose to leave together with Williams and Hendricks. "We have to leave for our meeting about the NTAS alert. Based on what you've told me so far, I will of course recommend an _imminent_ – not just elevated – alert. We have to assume that there could be _more_ balloons out there. May I again remind you that you're not permitted to mention what we have just discussed to _anyone_ outside this room."

There was a knock on the door, and a nurse entered and showed Hendricks a thick patient file with various hospital forms. "There's apparently a health care proxy," she said, flipping through the file to the right page. "Someone needs to authorize this."

Before Hendricks could reply, Williams grabbed the file from his hands and glanced at the page. "Out of the question," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "We can't possibly bring _more_ people into this now. This is a matter of national security."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jerry," Pantone admonished his Assistant and reached out for the file. "Since when does the DHS not respect patient wishes? I happen to feel very strongly about this issue myself."

Pantone frowned deeply as he read the proxy carefully several times. Finally, he took off his glasses and rubbed his face wearily, before passing the file on to Jo. "I think this would be more appropriate coming from you, Detective Danville."

Jo looked down and read the information slowly, her face ashen. "You really think this might still be relevant?" she turned to ask Hendricks.

The doctor looked uncomfortable. "You can never tell. As I told you, it's one of the most virulent pathogens we've encountered. Over the past ten years, this hospital has lost five patients to inhalation anthrax."

"And how many anthrax patients have you treated, in all?"

"If we include Detective Taylor, six."

"Well, in that case I have an urgent phone call to make," Jo said and glanced over at Pantone, who nodded his consent. "I _so_ hope you're wrong about this."

"Excuse me, Director Pantone," Danny called out, just as everyone was about to leave. "Just _one_ question. You mentioned that Mac had been coughing yesterday evening. I was just curious. How could you have known that?"

"Oh, Mac and I met for a drink last night." Pantone looked the three detectives. "He didn't mention this to any of you?"

Surprised, Danny and Don shook their heads, while Jo frowned.

"What?" she exclaimed, her mind reeling with the implications. "Are you telling us that you _warned_ Mac that this could happen? That he _knew_ there was a threat against his life – and he didn't tell anyone?"

Pantone looked bewildered at first. "Oh no, not at all," he replied, understanding finally dawning on his face. "Unfortunately, DHS had _no_ idea that there was a credible anthrax threat in New York City until I got a call from Jonathan at exactly -," he glanced at the stopwatch function on his wristwatch, "- two hours and fifty-six minutes ago. You have no idea what a disaster this is for my Office that we didn't foresee this, but we've been subject to budget cuts just like everyone else."

"So you didn't meet Mac to discuss _any_ kind of threat to his life?" Jo asked.

"No, Mac and I met for personal reasons. We're actually old friends. You probably don't know this, but I lost my son on 9/11. It was what made me join Homeland Security in the first place."

Pantone put his hand on the wall and sighed deeply before continuing.

"Jack was a young NYPD officer at the same precinct as Mac at that time. Mac and I met on that terrible day and have kept in touch – on and off – ever since. As widowers who both lost loved ones in 9/11, we've had a lot to talk about over the years."

"That's right," Jo exclaimed. "I remember seeing the two of you talking at the 9/11 Memorial Service last year. I seem to recall that you were showing Mac something you had in your hand."

"Yes, Jack was posthumously awarded a 9/11 Heroes Medal of Valor," he said, a father's unmistakable pride in his voice. "He lost his life trying to save people from a burning building. I brought his medal with me to the Service."

"I also recall Mac mentioning something about you reminding him of his own father."

The old man smiled ruefully and straightened his back, his voice emotional for the first time.

"Well, coming from someone like Mac, that really humbles me to hear. I guess you could say he's also been like a son to me, ever since Jack died. Mac will definitely be in my prayers tonight. As you can imagine, given my job – which has become my mission in life – I couldn't possibly bear losing _both_ of them to terrorism."

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><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 4 – "The Motive" <strong>_A week later_. Mac and the CSI team try to work out who tried to kill him


	4. The Motive

**Author's note: **Thank you, everyone, for your reviews.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4 – "The Motive" <strong>

* * *

><p><em>A week later<em>

"No, I _won't_ say it again! I've said it a hundred times already. It's completely meaningless to me."

Sitting at the head of the table in the Crime Lab conference room, Mac Taylor leaned back wearily in his chair. Forgetting himself for a brief moment, he closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands. Having arrived directly from Trinity General, he had repeatedly assured everyone that he was fine, but in truth he was already utterly exhausted.

He opened his eyes again, suddenly remembering the woman sitting at the far end of the table, a visitor's badge clipped to neckline of her blouse. But it was already too late. Her frown deepened, and he knew that his moment's inattention had just increased the tension in the room. This really had to be the very _last_ thing he needed, right now.

Not for the first time, Mac shifted uncomfortably in his chair. While his mind knew that it would not be an option, his body was telling him to go home, unplug his phone, and sleep for a week. He had a headache and felt strangely lightheaded from the powerful medication coursing through his veins. The chest tube that had been forced between his ribs at the ER had only been removed yesterday, and he was still too sore to raise his right arm. His lower back ached from the lumbar puncture that had revealed that the _Bacillus anthracis_ in his spinal fluid hadn't released its toxin. And – as if that wasn't enough already – his bronchitis hadn't cleared up yet.

Looking around the conference room, Mac didn't even want to _imagine_ how everyone would react if he began coughing again now. Bracing himself, he put his hand over his mouth and managed to quell the urge. His throat was still raw from the endotracheal tube, which had rendered him speechless for a whole day, prompting Williams to place a pen between his fingers instead. If his voice was still a little hoarse now, though, it was from arguing incessantly with the DHS Assistant Director for the past few days.

When he had arrived at the Crime Lab, Mac had resolved he wouldn't leave until he had a better picture of what had happened to him. At the time, he had been convinced he'd be confronted with piles of evidence, stacks of reports, and an array of hypotheses about means, motive and opportunity. Instead, his CSI team had greeted him almost empty-handed, except for a string of questions for which he himself didn't have any answers.

"Oh please, just say it _one_ last time, for my sake," Jo said encouragingly, putting her hand on his sleeve. "It's the _only_ clue we've got to work with, if we want to find out who did this to you."

Scowling, Mac stared at the expectant faces in the room, waiting for him to say it just _one_ last time for Jo's sake. Jo herself, sitting closest to him on his right, was already leaning forward in anticipation. Seated next to her, Lindsay's face still betrayed her anxiety about the near disaster that had struck in their midst. At her side, Danny winked at him while fiddling absent-mindedly with the wedding ring with which he had been gratefully reunited. Across the table, Sid sat attentively with his hands folded in front of him, and Adam glanced up briefly from doodling balloons on his notepad. And then – of course – there was their visitor, whose unwavering gaze Mac still carefully avoided.

"'_Sheesh. What's he doing here?_'" Mac finally repeated, flatly. "Okay, are you satisfied, Jo? Because that's the last time that I'll _ever_ say that in my entire life."

Smiling empathically at him, Lindsay put her hand on Jo's sleeve. "Maybe you should give him a little break now. He's looking a little peaked."

"It _still_ doesn't ring any bells?" Jo asked again, unrelenting in her determination to help him remember. "You still don't know who you meant by it? C'mon, Mac, I'm just trying to _jog_ your memory here."

"Oh God," he groaned at the pun, putting his hand over his face. "I've only got _your_ word that I ever said it in the first place."

When Mac had finally regained consciousness at Trinity General, any hope for an explanation had been dashed by the fact that he had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened to him. In fact, when he was told about the improbable events in Central Park early Sunday morning, he reacted with the same disbelief as everyone else. The last thing he could remember clearly was waking up in the morning, taking a shower, and having breakfast. At first, this seemed like a promising start, before it became clear he was in fact referring to _Saturday_ morning.

"I've been over this dozens of times already, in my mind," Jo continued, "and I'm _still_ convinced the jogger is the key to all of this. He walked right past the spot where you found the balloon just minutes later. And you told me yourself that you recognized him. This _can't_ just be a coincidence."

Mac sighed loudly and looked pleadingly to Sid for help.

"With patients suffering from retrograde amnesia," Sid explained, rallying to his aid, "their memory cannot be recovered just by telling them about the missing events."

"But what makes you think Mac has _that_, Doc?" Danny asked skeptically. "He didn't hit his head or anything."

"Well, there are actually three different causes of this type of memory loss. It's true that it is most commonly associated with head injuries, like those we see in high contact sports such as football. As you said yourself, this is _not_ the case with Mac."

"So what else could have caused him to forget what happened?" Lindsay asked.

"Retroactive amnesia can also be a response to a traumatic emotional incident that a person wants to repress. In this case, there isn't any actual damage to the brain. In both these instances, the forgotten memories are usually recovered spontaneously later."

Mac rolled his eyes. "Believe me, I really _am_ trying to remember."

"Well, _if_ you had realized at the time just how close you were to losing your life," Sid explained to him, "it'd be the kind of harrowing memory you probably _would_ want to forget. But the team has already discussed this and concluded that even _you_ would have said something, in this case. If not earlier, then at least to Detective Flack in the car."

"Yes, I _might_ just have mentioned it to him," Mac replied sourly, offended that the topic had even been debated in his absence. Looking around the room, he noted the lingering skepticism on some of the faces, especially the visitor's.

"Well_, I_ do believe you," Sid continued earnestly, "because there is also a third possible explanation for your memory loss. In rare instances, infections can pass through the blood-brain barrier and cause exactly this kind of amnesia. In this case, there isn't any neurological damage either, but you'll most likely never recover your missing memories. Of course, without access to your medical records, we won't know if this actually applies to you. But in my professional opinion, this is the most likely explanation."

"Thank you, Sid," Mac sighed gratefully, "for making it clear that I'm back with my _full_ mental capacity, despite not remembering anything between Saturday morning and waking up at Trinity, four days later. In the company of that _jackass_, Williams," he added resentfully.

Stung by his words, Jo sat up abruptly and pointed to the visitor at the far end of the table. "But we _tried_ to be there for you, Mac!" she exclaimed. "Hendricks notified us as soon as you regained consciousness. But once you were coherent and able to talk, Williams took over and wouldn't let us anywhere _near_ you."

Sighing, Mac flexed his fingers and looked down at his aching hands. In the taxi from the hospital, he had impatiently pulled the white medical tape off the back of each hand. Now he stared at the two livid bruises from the IV cannulae that had kept him alive this past week. Of course, the ruddy contusions on the knuckles of his right hand had nothing to do with his anthrax treatment, but everything to do with his stay at Trinity General.

"Well, remind me to tell Henry exactly what I think of his _disastrous_ lack of judgment," he growled, his anger at his friend finally revealing itself. "Leaving me in the hands of someone like Williams. What on _earth_ was he thinking?"

"_I_ can explain that," Jo replied soothingly. "As your friend, Pantone wanted to interview you himself, of course. But Deputy Commissioner Roberts told us that _he_ asked Pantone to refrain, in order to avoid any conflict of interest. Apparently, Roberts knows Pantone from when he was in the NYPD, and – unlike the rest of us – he already _knew_ that the two of you were friends. You should know that Pantone has been very worried about you, Mac."

"I _realize_ that," Mac sighed, before turning to Sid. "I need your opinion on why the anthrax bacteria didn't release their toxin into my bloodstream," he said to the Medical Examiner.

"As you can imagine, I've been wondering about that myself," Sid answered gravely. "I guess we'll never know if that balloon contained helium or not. But if it _did_, I might have an explanation." He looked up at the ceiling, pondering the accuracy of what he was about to say.

"Don't keep us in suspense here, Doc," Danny warned him gently. "It's killing us."

"Our normal atmospheric air consists of about 80% nitrogen and 20% oxygen. The gas ordinarily used for party balloons is a mixture of about 97% helium and 3% nitrogen. My guess is that the anthrax bacteria just didn't thrive in all that helium. They would have been less reactive, responsive … sort of _woozy_, I guess you could almost say."

"_Woozy_? That's a pretty fitting description of _you_," Jo told Mac with a warm smile, "the last time we saw you."

"Sid, are you really telling us," Danny said, grinning broadly at his boss, "that Mac inhaled anthrax spores with squeaky little voices?"

Looking at them both, Mac broke into a smile for the first time. "Well, what _other_ evidence have we got to work with? Apart from this jogger I supposedly recognized."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but we've got jack-diddly-squat," Danny replied, shaking his head in disgust. "_Everything_ related to the Central Park crime scene has been confiscated by Homeland Security, including our field kits, notes, cameras, clothing. I guess we should be grateful _we_ weren't shipped off to Fort Detrick, as well. DHS is still not allowing anyone within 200 yards of the crime scene, claiming the EPA is cleaning up an illegal toxic waste dump. Although Homeland Security don't believe that the severed limbs are in any way linked to the balloon, they won't release them back to us, either."

"Mac, _so_ much has happened this past week," Jo sighed. "Before you picked up that balloon, we were knee-deep in crime scene tape, and now we're all tangled up in red tape."

"I'll speak to Henry about it," Mac replied thoughtfully. "I guess that's all I can do."

"Well, I'm going to have to disagree with you there, because it's not _all_ you can do," she said, her face suddenly very somber. "We've been tiptoeing around that creep Williams all week, for _your_ own sake, Mac. We've been grateful for any little morsel of information he has thrown our way. We've somehow managed to work constructively around - well - his _unfriendliness_ towards us."

Mac stared glumly down at the table, bracing himself for what to come.

"Now, I _know_ you only did what the rest of us secretly wanted to do ourselves," she acknowledged. "But what you did to Williams has now escalated into a full-blown inter-agency rift. The NYPD Commissioner and Roberts have already smoked the peace pipe with the DHS Commissioner and your friend Pantone to make sure there were no hard feelings." She looked at him reproachfully. "What on earth were _you_ thinking, Mac?"

"I had my reasons," Mac replied darkly. "Williams had it coming to him. Treating me like a suspect."

"Well, he is now insisting that you apologize to him personally. Otherwise he won't keep us in the loop any longer."

"But that's just childish!" he exclaimed.

"He says you nearly _killed_ him," Jo cried out. "That it was lucky it happened at the hospital, close to the ER."

"He's exaggerating. I was … just getting his attention," he finally admitted.

"Well, remind me to always give you my _full_ attention from now on." Jo sighed and shook her head. "Mac, do you have any idea how _scary_ you sound, when you say things like that?" She stared at him, concern on her face. "_Everybody_ agrees that you've been under a lot of strain recently. But you should know that the Commissioner and Roberts are keeping an eye on you from now on. Any more … missteps like that, and they'll _suspend_ you."

"The _strain_ that I've been under happens to be _anthrax_," Mac replied sourly, shaking his head. "Williams has always been _way_ too ambitious for the NYPD. Henry used to be his old NYPD training officer, and now he's ridden on Henry's coattails right to the top at DHS. There's just no way I'm apologizing to that bastard!"

"C'mon, don't be so stubborn!" She threw her hands in the air. "All you have to do is say you're sorry. It'll take some of the heat off you and put you in good standing again, all the way up to the Commissioner."

"Why should _I _apologize, when it was _his_ fault?" he protested, crossing his arms.

"Oh, goody. Let's just leave it there, then." Jo closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "And here I was worried that the NYPD wouldn't be more _mature_ about this than Homeland Security."

"Williams _has_ to keep the NYPD informed, it's his _job_," Mac retorted angrily.

"Well, I really hate to break this to you, but we've actually been over the fine print in the CIMS protocol. DHS is only required to liaise with the NYPD Commissioner and the Counterterrorism Division. Not Roberts, not Sinclair, and certainly not the Crime Lab. As long as the very existence of anthrax in New York City is still classified, we've even been warned against investigating this balloon incident ourselves. If we do happen to come up with anything relevant to the case, we are required to hand it over to DHS immediately."

"Well, then it really _is_ about time I have a word with Henry," he muttered.

"I'm afraid there's even _more_, Mac," Jo added a little uneasily, wondering if it was wise to bring it up now. "Go ahead, tell him, Adam."

Blinking at Jo, Adam looked like he was going to melt into his seat, before turning to Mac. "To find the identity of this jogger, Homeland Security has subpoenaed us to get access to all databases and case files in our IT systems. They have already accessed our mainframe remotely, and are probably systematically data mining our files as we speak, cross-referencing everything we've got with their own terrorist suspect lists. To be honest, I wouldn't put it past them be eavesdropping on our phones and emails, as well."

"What!" Mac slammed his open hand on the table, making everyone in the room jump. "How the hell can they do _any_ of this without _my_ expressed permission?"

"Mac, I'm really sorry," Jo said, "but in your absence, I gave them my written consent to do this. Williams was very insistent, as you can imagine. He told me you had already signed off on it at the hospital."

"Dammit!" he snapped. "Williams had me sign all sorts of stuff, said it was medical forms. I could barely hold the damned pen!" The others waited apprehensively as he fumed in silence for a moment. "I wonder if it's even legally binding if the signature is illegible," he muttered to himself.

Looking nervously around the room, Lindsay pointed up at the ceiling. "Could they be … _listening to us now_?" she whispered. "I mean, I realize you're not supposed to be discussing Mac's anthrax infection with any of us."

"No, I've already checked our surveillance tapes," Jo replied. "Installing that kind of equipment would require their physical presence in our lab. Don't worry, Lindsay. I don't think DHS actually _suspect_ us of planning any wrongdoing. I think they just don't _trust_ us to hand over any relevant information that we might dig up."

Jo turned and smiled at the woman across the room. "And of course, I know _you_ wouldn't tell on us," she said, "even though Pantone brought you into this, himself."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it, Jo," the woman answered amiably, catching Mac's eye for the first time.

"That said, we still _cannot_ breathe a word about this to anyone outside this room," Jo cautioned everyone solemnly. "And that includes the rest of staff here at the Lab. I'm really sorry, Mac, but if anyone asks, the official, DHS-sanctioned cover story is that you were hospitalized with pneumonia. Again."

"Christ Almighty," Mac exhaled dismally and slumped down in his chair. He and the visitor stared at each other for a minute, their faces inscrutable.

Like everyone else in the room, Jo didn't fail to notice that the two of them were finally looking at each other, for the first time.

"Well, perhaps we could think of it this way," Jo suggested to Mac. "We _all_ want to find out who's responsible for the balloon, right? Maybe we should be grateful that Homeland Security is allocating so many resources to finding out what happened to you. Wouldn't it be in everyone's interest if we gave the DHS investigation our full cooperation and waited for Williams to come up with a suspect?"

"No, we're doing this _my_ way," Mac replied resolutely, sitting up straight again. "I don't trust Williams to have our best interest at heart. We're going run with this and see how much we can investigate ourselves, _off_ the grid. Don't worry. This is _my_ call, and I'll take full responsibility for this decision."

"Mac, I know how strongly you feel about keeping the public informed," Jo said. "It's going to be tempting for you to reveal what you know."

"Damned right," he growled. "Because this isn't just about me. Until we catch this guy, we don't know that this couldn't happen again to someone else here in New York City. People have a _right_ to know what's going on."

"I know you've thumbed your nose at Carver and Sinclair's requests for cover-ups before," Jo said, grabbing hold of his sleeve. "But I _really_ need to warn you here. This is a completely different league. Believe me when I tell you that you do _not_ mess with Homeland Security. I saw what they can do when I was with the FBI. If they think you're intentionally breaching national security, they _will_ lock you up, and they _will_ throw away the key. Not even the Commissioner or your friend Pantone will be able to save you then. This is _not_ a joke. Please be careful, Mac."

"Hey, Jo, I'm always careful. You should know that by now," he replied with a smile, ignoring her raised eyebrow. "Now, if we don't have any actual evidence to go on, all we can do is _speculate_ about what happened. I know it's not the way we're used to doing things here at the Crime Lab, but right now it's all we've got."

Jo stared at him thoughtfully, before deciding to follow his lead. "Well, I know Williams doesn't believe the severed limbs have anything to do with the balloon. But based on my years of experience as a crime scene investigator, I have this gut feeling that they were put there for a purpose. You actually said something to that effect yourself, last Sunday. I don't think it was a prank, Mac. I think the crime scene was staged to set you up. It wouldn't be that hard to find out that you always take Sunday morning shifts."

"Well, I trust your instincts on this, Jo," Mac replied, grateful for her support. "Do we know how many cemeteries had at least two graves dug up during the past few weeks?"

"Actually, I already looked this up," Lindsay said, her cheeks coloring, "and there were five: Acacia, Beth Shalom, Cypress Hills, Linden Hill and Mount Olivet. Now I'm worried, of course, because Homeland Security will know that I searched for this information in our databases."

"That's perfectly all right," Mac reassured her. "They would expect us to do that. The question now is how we find out _which_ is the right cemetery without accessing our databases."

"Oh, that's easy enough, Mac," Jo replied. "It's Beth Shalom."

"Really? How can you be so sure?" He looked puzzled.

"At Central Park, Danny and I found a second left arm, after you had left. The arm was in pretty bad shape. At the time, I thought I would get another chance to take a closer look, but I remember noticing a faint tattoo on the forearm. Numbers. This would also explain why there were no signs of embalming. It's against Jewish tradition."

"Are you saying someone survived the _Holocaust_ only to be _dismembered_ right here in New York?" Mac asked incredulously. "I think I'm going to be sick." He turned away in disgust and stared out of the window, lost in his own thoughts. "Did you log any information about the arm into our system?"

"No, with everything that has happened, it only occurred to me just now."

"Good. We're keeping this to ourselves for now, at least until we can get a closer look at Beth Shalom." Mac looked satisfied that they had finally arrived at a tangible lead after starting from scratch. "Now, how _else_ can we make headway on this, in the absence of any actual evidence?"

"Well, at the FBI we would still try to establish a profile of our suspect," Jo suggested. "Let's start by asking ourselves who would most likely choose anthrax as a weapon."

"Off the top of my head, "Lindsay replied, "I'd say a terrorist, perhaps Al Qaeda. Or maybe a disgruntled laboratory scientist, like the one who sent the letters after 9/11."

"Okay," Jo continued, "now we need to link these two profiles to you, Mac. In all of your years at the Crime Lab, have you ever come across anything like this?"

Mac shook his head vehemently. "No, nothing like this has ever crossed my desk, especially since the Lab doesn't have the biosafety level to handle anything like anthrax. We've never even dealt with any of the many hoax letters after 9/11." He frowned. "You know, I still find it _really_ hard to believe that a terrorist or mad scientist would want to target me specifically."

"Maybe we should go about this a little differently," Lindsay said, getting up to walk to the white board. She drew three big stick figures next to each other, labeling the left one 'Mad scientist', the right one 'Militant Islamist', and the center one 'Mac'. "Maybe if we represent these two profiles like this on this board, you'll recognize one of them."

Looking skeptical and slightly offended, Mac shook his head. "'Lindsay, I'm not sure I even recognize _myself_ on that board."

Lindsay drew a double-headed arrow above the three figures, connecting the Scientist and the Islamist above Mac's head. "They could also be working _together_ on this. Any ideas, anyone?"

"Oh, pick me, pick _me_!" Danny waved his hand in the air. "I vote for the militant Islamist as our perp," he said enthusiastically, pointing at the stick figure on the right. "I think what happened at Central Park has all the hallmarks of Al Qaeda-style terrorism. _And_ I think the dog walker is somehow a part of this. He's seen terrible things in Afghanistan, maybe he was even converted there. He got the idea of using severed limbs, because he's missing some fingers himself. The dead bodies were dug up from a _Jewish_ cemetery, there was a _Judas_ tree at the scene, and it's nearly _Easter_. Somehow, all of this _has_ to be linked." He beamed at everyone. "You know, profiling without any evidence to back it up just comes so _naturally_ to me. Maybe I should be applying for a job with the Feds."

"I would hate to think a veteran could do anything so heinous," Mac sighed, looking sorrowful again. "But I guess we have to consider all the possibilities."

"I don't really know, Danny," Jo said skeptically. "You may just want to hold on to that application, just yet. To me, it seems awfully unlikely that a terrorist would bother to set up a fake crime scene for Mac. If they really wanted to target someone from the NYPD, it would be so much easier to choose a random uniformed officer. I think this is somehow _personal_, so I vote for the mad scientist, myself." She pointed to the stick figure on the left. "Mac could have met this person in his professional capacity, in a courtroom, at a hearing, or at a conference. Maybe it's even a forensics expert."

"But, Jo," Sid interrupted thoughtfully, "a scientist, even a mad one, would have known that helium would reduce the effect of the anthrax."

"You're right, Sid. It still raises more questions," Jo replied with a sigh. She screwed up her face, trying to remember something. "I know there is still some _detail_ from the Central Park crime scene that I'm overlooking. So much has happened since then, I can't even remember what is was, any longer."

"I'm sorry, guys," Adam said, finally finding the courage to speak up again, "but think this weapon is just _way_ too elaborate to just be about Mac." He turned deferentially to his boss. "With all due respect, if someone wanted you dead, why not just run you over with a car, push you in front of the subway, or fake a mugging in some alley? Even dangling you over an alligator pit, like in a James Bond movie, would make more sense."

"Adam!" Jo exclaimed, seeing Mac wince. "Don't _you_ be giving anyone ideas."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Adam quickly added. "I really meant no offense."

"You're quite right to point this out, Adam," Mac replied, scratching his chin. "Someone is sending a _message_ with this choice of weapon. We just don't know to whom yet."

"Oh, _I_ can think of someone who is already getting that message, loud and clear," Danny said. "It's the _Mayor_. His already poor approval ratings have just plummeted this past week. The balloon ban is a publicity nightmare for him."

"The _what_?" Mac exclaimed, his jaw dropping.

"Oh, I guess we forgot to tell you about that," Danny snickered. "Since you picked up that balloon a week ago, the Mayor has imposed a temporary, 30-day ban on the private or public possession, sale, use or display of any kind of balloons, including decorative, meteorological and transportation balloons, within the City of New York."

"I assume that this is because the NTAS alert for New York has been revised to imminent, and people know to look out for balloons containing anthrax."

"No, Mac," Jo answered. "On Sunday, Pantone told us he was going to recommend an _imminent_ alert to the Mayor, but it was only ever revised to _elevated_ alert. I guess that's because no more balloons were discovered since Sunday."

"How exactly does City Hall explain its ban then? Elevated alert still means there is a credible terrorist threat."

"Well, according to the Mayor's Office of Emergency Management," Danny explained, "Homeland Security has intercepted crude, tabletop plans to use a balloon or balloon-like object to spread some kind of disease or gas in the city. It's all very vague. Nobody knows anything about what actually happened in Central Park last Sunday. All the public knows is that the Mayor has banned everything that is fun about New York. This is _really_ going to cost him his reelection. He might as well have cancelled Christmas."

"What a load of claptrap," Mac replied. "Seriously, who could possibly miss _balloons_ that much?"

Jo and Adam exchanged knowing glances. "Whatever you say, boss," Adam said.

Thinking nothing of it, Mac coughed briefly, but it was painful in unexpected places, including under his arm and in his lower back. Grimacing, he braced his right side and a small gasp escaped his lips. He put his hand on the table and stared down at the floor, waiting impatiently for the urge to cough again to pass.

"Are you all right, Mac?" Jo asked cautiously. "Do you need a drink of water?"

"I'm fine, really." He didn't look up.

Everyone in the room exchanged glances, and Jo and the visitor both rolled their eyes. Raising her eyebrows, the woman caught Jo's eyes, and Jo nodded imperceptibly.

The woman uncrossed her arms. "I think this is my cue," Stella Bonasera said, getting to her feet. "I'm taking Mac home now."

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><p><strong>Next: Chapter 5 – "The Visitor"<strong> Mac and Stella talk about why she left New York


	5. The Visitor

**Author's note: **Thank you so much for letting me know that you want to read another chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 – "The Visitor"<strong>

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><p>Mac Taylor pushed open the door to his apartment and – by force of habit – stepped aside to let Stella enter first. They hadn't said a word to each other since leaving the Crime Lab, and had sat silently on the back seat of the taxi together. Stella had glanced at him several times, but Mac had kept his head turned away, staring at the rivulets of rain streaming across the taxi windows. Since he – unlike the others – had never been reunited with any of his possessions at the hospital, she pulled out her purse and leaned forward to pay the driver. They stepped out onto the curb and dashed to the building entrance together, sidestepping the widest puddles. Dripping wet, she waited patiently in the foyer while he retrieved his spare apartment key from the building manager and emptied his mailbox.<p>

As Stella walked past Mac into his apartment, he kept his eyes fixed on the letters he held in his hand. Looking back at him, she sighed inwardly. If his behavior at the Crime Lab had left her in any doubt, he was making it amply clear to her now: he was still resentful about what had happened two years ago. He made no move to close the door behind them, and Stella wondered if he was actually hoping she'd just turn on her heel and leave. But she hadn't come all the way from New Orleans just to be rebuffed on his doorstep. Besides, _she_ still had a bone to pick with _him_.

"I'm hungry," she announced and hung her brand new winter coat on the coat hook rack beside the door. Ignoring him, she put her hand against the wall and tugged off her wet boots. Then she headed straight down the narrow hallway to his kitchen, where she pulled open the refrigerator door.

"Just make yourself at home, then," he muttered irritably. He yanked the door shut and dumped his mail on the console table. Taking off his overcoat without raising his right arm required a little more effort than he had expected. With his left hand, he fumbled with the buttons and finally edged himself out of the sleeves. He swore as he kicked off his shoes, unable to bend down to untie them.

"Yuck!" she called out from the kitchen. "Most of this stuff will have to go. You should really pay more attention to what you eat, Mac."

"Give me a break here, Stella," he protested and slumped wearily against the door. Sleep was definitely going to be out of the question now. "I've been in hospital for a _week_."

With one hand, he rifled through the stack of letters on the table, looking vaguely for bills, before shoving the whole handful down into a bin. Then he reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a bottle of painkillers.

"Had I known that I'd be coming home with _you_," he couldn't resist adding, "I would of course have thrown out my perishables ahead of time."

Ignoring his sarcasm, she looked around his spotless kitchen. "You left this place early Sunday morning, and it looks like _this_? Did you even eat breakfast? My house actually looks like someone _lives_ in it, you know."

"I can only imagine," he replied, listening to her opening the cupboards and drawers in his kitchen. "You stayed with me for five days, remember?"

"How could I _possibly_ forget …?" she began, before biting back the rest of her reply. They couldn't be doing this now. It would have to wait until they had eaten.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said and headed for his bedroom to retrieve a change of clothing.

"Fine by me," she answered from the kitchen. She stood still for a moment, listening to the familiar sound of running water in the bathroom.

When he finally emerged again, he was wearing his faded gray sweats and had a towel slung around his neck. Revived by his shower, he followed his nose into the kitchen, intrigued by the smell of cooking. Stella was just setting the table with a big bowl of green salad and two plates of spaghetti carbonara with pancetta and pecorino. Noticing that her hair now was wetter than his own, Mac tossed his towel over to her without thinking.

Stella wrapped the towel into a turban around her hair, and they sat down at the small kitchen table. She broke two pieces off a loaf of French bread and handed one to him. For a while they ate in silence, until he finally had to admit, "This is delicious," with an appreciative smile on his lips.

"I'm glad you like it, Mac," she answered graciously.

"You know," he added with a sigh, "I haven't had a halfway decent meal, since …" He had started the sentence confidently, but now the task of completing it suddenly defeated him. "… since …"

Stella recognized that his difficulties had nothing to do with his amnesia. "Well, _some_ things certainly haven't changed since I left. You're still too busy to eat properly."

"I didn't realize I had the ingredients for this," he said, pointing down at their improvised meal. "I especially don't know how I could have overlooked _that_." He pointed to an enormous watermelon lying on his kitchen counter.

"Yeah, I'd forgotten how _tiny_ they were here in New York," she replied wryly. "Actually, I ran down to that great corner deli of yours while you were in the shower." She watched him help himself to more food, pleased that she had correctly guessed he would be famished after his weeklong stay at Trinity General.

"That was a pretty long shower, Mac," she said, throwing him a challenging look. "Maybe I should've peeked to check up on you."

His mouth still full of food, Mac pointed his fork at her while he finished chewing. "As far as I'm concerned," he finally replied, "_that's_ how you ended up in New Orleans in the first place."

"Oh?" She stared at him across the table, one eyebrow raised. "So that's how you see it?"

He put his elbow on the back of his chair and leaned back. "Are you telling me that you don't, Stella?"

"That's not what I said." Turning in her chair, she leaned forward and toweled her hair dry.

Having finally broached the subject, they tacitly agreed to leave it for the time being. Instead, Stella got up to cut them a couple of thick slices of watermelon as dessert.

"Coffee?" she asked, when they had finished eating and were clearing off the table.

Coughing again, he shook his head and pointed at the empty spot on the counter where his coffee maker used to be. He filled a glass with water from the kitchen sink and gulped it down.

"It's gone!" she gasped. "And here I thought nothing had changed. Well, I'm not surprised you finally wore out it out."

"Actually, I got rid of it. I'm cutting down." He began rinsing off the plates and filling the sink with soapy water. "I'll make us some tea instead. I could use some myself."

Stella picked up a dishtowel and marveled at how efficiently he took care of the dishes, while she tried to keep up. Behind them, a pot of black tea was already brewing on the countertop. To her surprise, Mac paused twice to check the gasket on the drain tailpiece below the sink.

"Now, _why_ has this suddenly stopped leaking?" he muttered to himself, a puzzled look on his face.

Once the kitchen was spotless again, they walked into his living room together, carrying their mugs of hot tea. Outside, the wind had picked up, and now the rain was lashing against the windowpanes. They both stopped dead when they saw a lowball glass and an open bottle of vintage bourbon standing on his dining table.

"Well, something _else_ has changed," Stella said dryly, putting down her mug. "I didn't realize you'd become a secret drinker, Mac."

"Neither did I." Utterly mystified, he picked up the bottle and stared at it.

"Are you seriously suggesting someone broke into your apartment and left an expensive bottle of whiskey on your table?" Instinctively, she pulled her sleeve over her fingers before picking up the glass. "Should we be dusting this for prints?"

"No, no," he reassured her, before twisting the cap on and putting the bottle back in the sideboard cabinet. "It's definitely my own. I've had it for years. I just don't remember opening it. It must have been last Saturday night, after I apparently met up with Henry."

Stella held the glass up to the light and took a closer look. "From what I can see, you poured yourself quite a stiff drink."

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Well, that's unexpected, but I must have had a very good reason." He sat down wearily on the couch. "I _really_ need to have another word with Henry."

Sitting down next to him, Stella put her feet up on the edge of the coffee table and blew on the mug she cradled between her hands. Mac glanced down at his wrist and realized that he no longer was in possession of his watch. He got up and went to his bedroom, and she could hear that he was rummaging around in the nightstand by his bed. On his way back, he emptied the pockets of his overcoat and brought a handful of pill vials and an inhaler, which he lined up on the coffee table.

Stella noticed that Mac was winding up an old-fashioned men's watch. She held out her arm so he could set the time by her own wristwatch.

"It was my father's," he explained self-consciously, strapping it carefully onto his wrist.

She picked up each plastic vial in turn and read their labels. "Ciprofloxacin, doxycycline and penicillin. That's an awful lot of antibiotics. Are you really supposed to take all that?"

"Yes," he sighed in resignation. "Three times a day for sixty days. Otherwise I'm in trouble. At least according to Hendricks."

"Given how sick you've been," she said, shaking her head in wonder, "I'm astonished you were discharged so soon."

Instead of replying, Mac just leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and silently studied the medication on the table.

"Oh, no, you _didn't_!" she exclaimed, unable to keep the disapproval out of her voice. "You really give new meaning to the word incorrigible, Mac."

"By threatening to raise hell, I finally got Hendricks to call Henry. He's the one who got me discharged." He threw out his hands in indignation. "Well, can _you_ see me lying around in bed all day?"

In her mind, Stella actually had vivid images of him doing exactly that, but she held her tongue. "Oh my, you've been keeping busy, Mac," she said, thinking about what he had done to Williams. "So, should I be reminding you to take your meds?" she added hesitantly. "Because I seem to remember having to … wrestle … you about this, last time."

"Nope, I'm all grown up now. You'd be amazed." He shook out three pills and washed them down with a sip of his tea.

"Well, I came all the way from the Big Easy to the Big Apple to rescue you. There must be _something_ I can do for you."

He rolled his eyes at her. "I didn't need _rescuing_, Stella. I was already in safe hands."

"You mean Jo's hands?" she asked, looking him right in the eyes.

"No," he answered tersely, pulling back. "I mean Hendricks and his team. Apparently, I'm their first ever survivor. They'd probably put a plaque up at the hospital, if it wasn't all such a damned _secret_."

"Jo tells me you're not getting much sleep," Stella ventured. "She was really worried you had come down with pneumonia again."

"Well, it wasn't pneumonia, was it? It was just bronchitis. I happen to have the top infectious disease experts in the _country_ backing me up on this one."

"Yeah, right, Mac," she said. "It was bronchitis with just a touch of _anthrax_."

"Whatever. You're deliberately missing the point, here. I'm fine. There's no need for anyone to worry about me."

"Well," she replied, "it's just that the last time you got sick, everything just went south for us. I wouldn't want it to happen to you again."

He looked up sharply. "The way I remember it," he replied, "_I_ stayed right here, and _you're _the one who went south."

"Mac, I didn't realize you felt crowded by me until it was too late," she exclaimed. "I mean, you didn't say a word and then you just – blew up!"

"We were moving too fast," he replied bitterly. "It felt like you were taking over my life, and then you suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. A few days later I find out you'd taken a job in New Orleans!"

"I was _desperate_ to leave, for everyone's sake, including your own, Mac," she replied. "We were constantly arguing, unable to work out how to get back to being just friends again. Everyone was hiding under their desks, no one was getting any work done. You were about to lose it, and the whole Crime Lab was suffering."

"So, you just headed for the hills, leaving me behind to pick up the pieces. You had me reeling for _days_," he spat out, his simmering anger flaring up. Stella braced herself, knowing exactly where he was heading. "And then – to top it all off – I get a phone call from the NOPD Chief about the recommendation from me that you had _faked_!"

"Please try to understand, Mac," she appealed to him. "I just _had_ to get away at the first possible opportunity. It was very big of you not to rat on me at the time. I never got to thank you for that. I would have been out of a job before I even got started." She put her hand on his sleeve, trying to catch his eyes. "I really appreciate it."

Frowning, he stared at her for a moment before finally sighing. "Well, you wrote everything that I would have written myself, anyway. Saved me the paperwork, I guess."

"We ruined ten years of friendship in just five days," she said ruefully. "It was _definitely_ a mistake."

"Oh, yeah, was it _ever_," he agreed. "I'll never do anything quite so stupid again."

"There's actually something I've been meaning to ask you," she told him. "No one around here seems to know what actually happened between us. They all seem to think we argued because you didn't like being fussed over. How can that be?"

"Well, I _don't_ like it," he replied sourly.

"Yes, I realize that _now_," she sighed, "but that's not why we were fighting, was it?"

"You were gone, Stella, and I wasn't up to explaining what actually happened," he confessed, a little embarrassed that he had omitted telling everyone the truth. "If it's any consolation to you, the story backfired completely on me. Now, whenever I cough, everyone panics around me."

"Well, Jo is definitely going to work out what really happened," Stella said. "She's a bright lady. And there's a certain chemistry between the two of you, I can tell."

"Chemistry?" he replied, glancing sideways at her. "You really think so?"

"Are you telling me that you don't?"

"That's not what I said," he said with a smug smile.

"I think you'd be perfect for each other. You're going to want to let her get closer."

"I don't believe _you're_ giving me advice on this." Exasperated, he briefly covered his eyes, before looking back at her. "You're an expert on this subject, exactly _how_?"

"You know _how_, Mac," she replied quietly. "Jo is giving you a hard time because she really _likes_ you, Mac."

"You saw her at the lab today, yourself," he said. "She never lets me get away with _anything_."

"She's just keeping you out of trouble, like I used to," Stella laughed. "I can also tell you for free that Sheldon's going to be applying for paternity leave by the end of the year."

"What?" He stared at her in disbelief. "How can you possibly know that? The man is still on his honeymoon."

"You're forgetting that I run a Crime Lab, too. I just know to keep an eye on these things, and I'm sure Jo's already making contingency plans." She saw him shaking his head skeptically. "C'mon, it's just common sense. The birds and the bees. Remind me to tell you about them sometime. I think you're old enough by now."

"Actually, I think I've had a few practical lessons already." He had a twinkle in his eye as he smiled at her.

She grinned. "Well, I certainly learned a thing or two I didn't know about _you_, Mac. We practically spent five whole _days_ in your bedroom."

"It's been too long, Stella."

"You know, I'm actually glad Jo called me," she replied. "We could never have cleared the air like this in a long-distance phone call."

"You're right." Yawning, he straightened his back and stretched out his arms wearily, before suddenly flinching.

"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm still so damned tired," he replied, holding his left hand firmly under his right arm. "It must be the medication. I think I need to lie down."

Stella looked at him in concern. "Mac, whenever you say you want to _lie down_, it always means you're about to _pass out_. Why am I the only one who seems to know this? You said exactly those words to me when you collapsed at the crime scene two years ago."

"I did, really?" He looked skeptical. "But now I really just want to go and lie down." He pointed towards his bedroom.

"Mac," she warned him, "I'm not following you into your bedroom ... again."

"Stella!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes in irritation. "I'm not _inviting_ you into my bedroom ... again." He sighed deeply. "Now you're reading something completely different into the same words. Why do women always have to make everything so … _complicated_?"

"Mac, has it ever occurred to you," she suggested gently, "that maybe _you're_ the one who's complicated?

"What do you mean?" Mac looked offended. "I'm a very straightforward kind of guy."

"Oh, really?" she laughed. "What makes you think that?"

"Help me out here," he appealed to her. "It's just … I really need to _lie down_. What am I supposed to say if I just want to do exactly that – lie down?"

She frowned in disappointment. "Okay, I understand. You want me to leave. I'd better get back to my hotel, anyway." She started to get up from the couch. "I'm meeting Flack for dinner tonight. If you're feeling any better after your nap, you're welcome to tag along."

He reached out for her hand and pulled her gently back down again. "But I still want to _talk_, Stella."

Stella stared at him before retrieving a cushion from the far end of the couch and put it on her lap. "Come on then," she said, patting the cushion. "Put your head here so you can lie down while we talk."

He reluctantly leaned back until he lay with his head on the cushion, looking up skeptically into her smiling face. He exhaled slowly, keeping his hand clutched to his side.

"How are you feeling now?" she asked.

"I'm fine, really."

"So, is that _fine_-fine," she teased him, "or _in-agony_-fine?"

"Stella, not this again! I don't need an interpreter." He thought about it for a moment, before finally explaining, "In Mac-speak _fine_ means _leave me alone_."

"Good, I'm glad we got that cleared up," she laughed. "I'll make a note of it in my Mac-speak dictionary." She looked down at him warmly. "I'm _so_ glad you're okay. My job is obviously done here. Someone upstairs is apparently looking out for you, from now on."

"God's a scientist, Stella," Mac answered. "And we're all just His lab rats."

"Amen to that," she said with a smile. "But if you don't mind me saying so, He's running a pretty weird experiment on _this_ particular lab rat." She poked his chest with her finger, before shaking her head gloomily. "I still can't believe the mess you got yourself into. I mean, seriously, Mac, an _anthrax_ balloon! How awful."

"I don't remember any of it," he reassured her.

"When Jo called me to say you were fighting for your life, and that she couldn't even tell me why," Stella recounted, "I thought my _own_ heart would stop beating." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I literally dropped everything and rushed straight to the airport. On the flight, I was sick to my stomach with anxiety, worried that I might have to decide to discontinue your life-sustaining treatment. It is _such_ a heavy responsibility."

"I'm sorry, Stella," he said quietly. "I really appreciate you coming all this way for me. I didn't realize you were still listed as my health care agent on that proxy. I guess I never got around to changing it after you left."

"You've always been a strong believer in a person's right to a dignified death," she said. "But I've never really known why."

Mac lay silently for a minute, realizing that he owed her an explanation, since he had inadvertently summoned her to New York.

"When I left the Marine Corps," he finally said, "my father was already very ill with small cell lung cancer. I offered to move back to Chicago, but he said there was no need for me to be there, he'd had a good life. Instead he urged me to take the job in New York. He said it was the finest police force in the country."

With a wince, he raised his right arm and stared at the watch. He held it to his ear briefly to check if it was still ticking, before brushing away a few imaginary specks of dust with his fingertips.

"He spent the last eight months of his life in bed on a feeding tube," he continued. "Whenever I called, he always said he was fine, even though we both knew he was slowly dying, in great pain."

Stella reached for his hand and held it tightly.

"Then one day, when I came to visit," he continued, taking a deep breath, "he asked me – _begged_ me – to end it for him." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I just couldn't do it. I would have done _anything_ for him, but not that. I let him down, Stella. It was the second worst day of my life."

Still holding firmly on to his hand, Stella sat for a while, taking in what he had just revealed to her. She realized for the first time that there had been an undercurrent of sadness beneath his stormy mood all day. Even if he had no memory of it, nearly losing his life had to have left an indelible impression of mortality on his mind.

"Well, I want you to know that I was inspired by you," she finally said. "In fact, I even put _your_ name down on my own health care proxy in New Orleans."

"You're kidding." He was astonished. "Even after what happened between us?"

"Yes, how sad is that?" she sighed. "You're _still_ the only person I would want to pull the plug on me."

"_You're_ not sad, Stella," he replied, shaking his head miserably. "I have many regrets. Not patching things up with you is one of them."

"It's all water under the bridge now, Mac," she said encouragingly. "I've moved on, built a new life for myself. You should really come down to Louisiana and visit me sometime."

He smiled. "You heard Adam today. I've got to stay away from alligators."

"Oh that's right," she said, rolling her eyes. "I completely forgot that we have alligators roaming around our _Lab_ in New Orleans."

"So, is there someone significant in you life now?" he asked curiously.

She stared down at him for a moment, before finally nodding with a big grin. "I haven't actually told anyone yet. And until now, I wasn't even sure I was going to tell _you_. But I think you should be the first to know. It's still so new to me. But, yes, as a matter of fact – as of last month – there is!"

Mac looked up and saw the joy shining from her green eyes. "That's great, Stella. I'm so happy for you. What's he like?"

She smiled. "Well, I don't know yet if it's a _he_ or a _she_."

He looked momentarily confused, trying to work out what she meant. "Either you've gotten more … _experimental_ since you left New York, or …" His eyes widened with a sudden realization. "Is this your way of telling me that …?" He sat up with a jolt, turning his head to look back nervously at her stomach.

"No, I'm not _pregnant_, Mac!" she laughed out loud and pulled him back down onto the cushion.

Looking up at her again, his brow creased in confusion. "Well, _what_ then?"

"I've just been approved for single parent adoption. In the City that Care Forgot, the foster homes and orphanages are always full of children in need of loving parents. I figured I could be one of them."

"That's _great_ news, Stella." He squeezed her hand. "I've always thought you would make a really wonderful mother."

"Thank you, Mac. It means a lot to me to hear you say that. No one in New Orleans knows me as well as you do."

"So, there's not going to be a father in the picture?" he asked, suddenly looking concerned.

"I grew up without a father. Look how wonderful I turned out," she said brightly. "You know me, Mac, always going a million miles an hour. Can't catch my breath. I've been too busy running my lab to find Mr. Right. "

He blinked at her a few times and was quiet for a few minutes, his eyes blank. "You might want to live a little, Stella," he said, closing his eyes.

"Oh, that's really rich coming from you, Mac," she laughed. "I'm here in New York because you _flatlined_."

"I didn't flatline, Stella, it was _v-tach_," he added, opening his eyes again. "I happen to know that _you_ know the difference."

"Whatever. You're deliberately missing the point here," she said with a sigh. "Jo tells me you're not seeing anyone."

"No, not at the moment," he replied sleepily.

"And 'the moment' has lasted how long…?" she enquired.

"Years," he admitted and closed his eyes again. "I still think you should be out there looking for a father for your child."

"I don't know. I have such terrible taste in boyfriends."

"Not _all_ of them, surely?" he opened his eyes and smiled.

She laughed. "Well, Jo seems to be doing just fine as a single mom. I only just found out she adopted her daughter _after_ her divorce. I've really got to ask her about that." She looked down at him again. "You were pretty close to your own father, weren't you?"

He nodded pensively. "For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about him lately."

"Do you miss him?"

"I guess I do," he sighed. "We had a very formal relationship. He couldn't always be there for me when I was a boy, but I joined the military because of him. Even as a kid, I used to dress up in fatigues and pretend to be a soldier, rather than a superhero." He sighed deeply. "I came to New York to honor my father's wishes. So, what I'm doing here _has_ to somehow make a difference."

"But it _does_ make a difference, Mac," she replied. "You're doing a great job with the Lab. You've been doing so for years."

"You don't understand," he said miserably. "My father told me to leave because he wanted me to start a _family_ here. What would he think, if he could see me now? All I have left is my job."

"Mac, it's not just a _job_," she cried out. "We're your _family_, as well. We all care about you! In fact, you owe your life to Jo and Flack's quick thinking."

"It's not the same thing, Stella," he sighed.

"At _some_ point, you're going to have to let someone into your life again," she suggested gently.

"I already told you, Stella. I can't do that again."

"Why are you always keeping everyone at arm's length? What are you afraid of?"

He thought about it for several minutes, before finally replying, "I just can't _bear_ …" he began slowly, bracing himself, before confessing to her, "… always being left behind."

Feeling her heart was about to break, Stella looked deeply into his green-blue eyes and saw that they were completely defenseless. He blinked a few times as an unfathomable sorrow crossed his vision. She recognized the terrible images he had seen in his life, which would never cease to haunt him.

"Oh, Mac, I'm _so_ sorry," she whispered, fully aware that he hadn't only been thinking of her, or even his father. Drawing a shuddering breath, he briefly covered his mouth and nose with his hand, before closing his eyes again. As he fell asleep, she felt his body relax and his tension drain away, and his hand finally slipped away from his side.

Stella sat for a while, wondering how she was going to extricate herself without waking the man now sleeping soundly on her lap. Finally, she stretched out to retrieve another cushion and nestled her head up against it. She could no longer reach her mug of tepid tea on the table, but it was surprisingly comfortable just sitting here like this. Hearing a roll of thunder above the incessant city traffic, she looked at the dark clouds gathering outside and was thankful she wasn't meeting Don until later in the evening.

Before she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep herself, Stella resolved that she would try to make up for the damage she had done by abandoning Mac two years earlier. After working around-the-clock for two years, she already had several weeks of vacation accrued. She could easily leave the New Orleans Crime Lab to her capable Assistant Supervisor for another week or two.

Her job was _not_ done, after all. Mac was _not_ all right. He was still in need of life support.

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><p><strong>Next: Chapter 6 – "The Favor"<strong> Mac finds out (again) whom Henry wants him to kill


	6. The Favor

**Author's note**: Thank you so much once again for kindly reviewing the previous chapter.

One of my most observant readers asked me about the self-repairing sink in the previous chapter, so I'd better explain. Mac actually fixed the sink himself at the very beginning of the first chapter, but he doesn't _remember_ that he did so. I'm mean, and I'm just about to get even _meaner_ … because in this chapter Henry is going to ask Mac to kill someone he cares about … :C

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><p><strong>Chapter 6 – "The Favor"<strong>

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><p>Mac Taylor stirred and gradually rose up through several layers of consciousness before drowsily reaching the surface. For a few minutes, he just lay with his eyes closed, his mind still pleasantly blank from the uninterrupted hours of dreamless sleep. When he finally rolled onto his side and opened his eyes, he was surprised to discover that he had been sleeping comfortably on his living room couch.<p>

Languidly, he stretched out his arms, sensing how more limber his body felt after his restful slumber. Now his lower back and ribs only ached dully, mere shadows of the sharp pain that had bothered him earlier. Craning his neck, he saw that the rain had finally cleared up, allowing the pale evening light to fall through his windows.

Pushing himself upright, he smiled when he saw that Stella had drawn a blanket over him before slipping out to meet Don for dinner. As he slid his bare feet onto the floor, his eyes fell on the scribbled note she had left on his coffee table. _Goodnight, sleepyhead_. Mac recalled what he had revealed to her about himself, before somehow managing to drift off to sleep in mid-conversation. Taken aback by his own candor, he shook his head regretfully. What must Stella be thinking of him now?

He glanced down at the bluish-green bruises on the backs of his hands, and he was reminded of his weeklong stay at Trinity General. Hendricks had explained to him that his lungs were still riddled with dormant anthrax spores, which would take his immune system weeks to flush out. The doctor had repeatedly stressed the importance of taking his antibiotics regularly to prevent the spores from growing into full-blown bacteria. The mere thought of this made Mac's breath catch in his throat, and he glanced nervously at the asthma inhaler lying on the table before him. Hendricks had even made a point of meticulously putting his emergency number on all of his medication.

Looking down at his wrist, Mac realized that the hands on his father's watch were already showing the wrong time. Disappointed, he held the watch up to his ear, but to his surprise it was still ticking smoothly. His eyes drifted suspiciously back to the windows to check the angle of the daylight outside, and then the realization suddenly rushed at him like a derailed train.

It wasn't _dusk_ after all, it was _dawn_ – he had slept _18_ hours, not just three. Grabbing for the antibiotics lined up on the coffee table, he managed to scatter the vials right across his living room floor instead. On his hands and knees, he scrambled to retrieve the ones that had rolled into the farthest reaches under his furniture.

When he finally had his medication in his hands again, Mac tossed three pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he cursed himself for slipping up like this. It was high time he pulled himself together and got back to finding out who was behind the attempt on his life. He resolved to start by getting ahold of Henry Pantone as soon as possible. He already had a half a dozen urgent reasons to meet his old friend, but what worried him most was the open bottle of whiskey in his sideboard cupboard.

When Mac called the DHS Director at his office, he sounded undeniably busy, but he readily promised Mac he would find the time to meet up. Returning his call a few minutes later, Pantone had managed to clear a two-hour window around noon by cancelling a string of meetings. He suggested they meet at a midtown coffee shop on East 41st Street, a few blocks south of the DHS headquarters in New York City.

A little bell chimed as Mac pushed open the glass door and entered the coffee shop ahead of the lunchtime crowd. He was greeted by the crisp aroma of roasting coffee beans and the metallic whirr of espresso grinders. A counter attendant was already re-stocking the soda cooler, and a waitress rushed past him taking early orders for lunch.

The uncluttered wooden furnishings and retro decor gave the place a timeless appeal. On the walls, the inevitable coffee-themed pictures were in fashionably neutral and brown tones. Above Mac's head, easy-listening tracks were playing a little too loudly from speakers hidden in the ceiling.

Scanning the room for Pantone, Mac looked beyond the center tables set together to accommodate large groups. He walked along a row of single tables lined against the wall for customers with laptops and a need for privacy. Finally, he spotted the DHS Director sitting alone in a booth in a lowlight section at the very back. When he saw Mac approach, Pantone's face lit up and he waved to him affably. Seeing his old friend immediately dispelled Mac's lingering resentment, and he smiled back warmly.

As he sat down across from Pantone, Mac put his little finger in his ear and wriggled it. "Henry, I can only think of _one_ possible reason you picked this place." With a wince, he pointed up at the ceiling. "No one can overhear our conversation with _that_ going on."

"We always think alike, Mac. Maybe you should reconsider joining us?" The older man smiled congenially. "For reasons I _naturally_ cannot disclose, we're currently upgrading our laboratory capacity. We could really use someone with your level of expertise."

Mac laughed at the proposal he'd heard so often before. "I'd rather eat my own badge than join your looney tune outfit." He smiled wryly before adding, "Even on your payroll, I probably still wouldn't be given clearance to read my own patient file."

"Nope, I wouldn't count on it," Pantone said, shaking his head with a feigned frown. "You know what we're like."

"The problem with you guys," Mac added, as he had often done before, "is that one hand never seems to know what the other is doing." This time, however, he was specifically thinking of Williams, but he decided to cross that bridge when Pantone brought the topic up himself.

"You're looking so much better than I'd feared," Pantone said, looking at him approvingly. "I was really worried it had been a mistake to discharge you so soon. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling much better, actually. It's probably just sheer relief at being out of the hospital." _That_, and 18 hours of sleep, Mac thought to himself. "I'm glad you found time to meet on such short notice. I realize you must be very busy these days."

"Busy? _Busy_?" Pantone repeated with a weary smile. "You just _had_ to go and pick that thing up, didn't you? You couldn't just have left it alone?"

"Apparently not," Mac answered with a shrug, not about to defend something he couldn't recall doing in the first place.

Pantone placed his phone on the table and switched it off with his thumb. "Turning this off will probably set off alarms God knows where. I didn't even tell my secretary where I was going – it's the only way I can get any peace. I really hope we're far enough away from the office to stay clear of my staff on their lunch break."

"Well, _someone_ already knows you're here." Mac pointed towards the front window of the coffee shop. Across the street, two tall men were sitting in a parked car reading newspapers.

"They're not watching _me_, Mac, they're watching _you_." Anticipating Mac's protests, Pantone put his hand up to silence him. "I know you absolutely refused, but it's for your own protection."

Mac sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Henry, I really don't need _babysitters_." If he hadn't even noticed he was being followed, he _really_ needed to get a better grip on himself.

"My agents are the least of your worries now," Pantone replied earnestly. "You should know that Jerry and I actually recommended confining you indefinitely at USAMRIID, but Roberts and your Commissioner wouldn't hear of it."

Mac blanched at the thought. "Remind me to thank them sometime," he mumbled weakly. Feeling slighted, he added indignantly, "I can't believe that you weren't going to let me have any say in this."

"That's because you're in more danger than you're willing to admit. We now know that the strain in the balloon was deliberately weaponized. We're still trying to match its exact DNA in our databases. It's _only_ because the balloon was filled with helium that you're still alive. Without the helium, the toxin would have been released within minutes, and you wouldn't have stood a chance."

"But I'm _fine_ now, and obviously not contagious. So why on earth would you still want to quarantine me?"

"Because as soon as he discovers that you're still alive, whoever is behind this will realize he has made a mistake. And if he – Heaven forbid - plans to release more balloons, he'll know not to use helium again. In that case we're _all_ in serious trouble – especially _you_, if this really is directed at you personally."

Mac digested the information slowly, before asking, "Do you have any idea who could be responsible?"

"Oh, we're looking at our list of usual suspects, but because the sophistication of the strain, we're discounting all kitchen-table terrorists. Instead, we're looking at the psychological profiles of employees at private and governmental laboratories." Pantone shook his head. "But so far, we've found nothing to tie any of our potential suspects to you."

Above the ceaseless music playing from the ceiling, they heard the gratingly cheerful voice of the cashier ringing up a purchase. Mac glanced at the coffee shop staff and was grateful that greeting people with a permanent smile wasn't part of his own job description.

Pantone looked at his friend compassionately. "Mac, I can't even _begin_ to think of what you've just been through." He shuddered involuntarily, and his hand rose up to his throat. "The thought of not being able to breathe - it's my worst nightmare." Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he took off his glasses and began polishing them vigorously.

Mac's eyebrows furrowed in concern, since he knew Pantone only did this when he was seriously stressed. Without his glasses, the man's face now looked vulnerable, and his hands appeared to be shaking slightly. Mac knew the DHS Director to be a somber man, even prone to occasional bouts of melancholy. Yet he was definitely not someone he would expect to be unnerved by what had happened. There had to be something else on his mind today.

"I really appreciate your concern," Mac replied grimly, "but honestly, I don't remember anything before waking up at Trinity." That had been an unpleasant awakening in itself, but it didn't seem like Pantone would be able to cope with the details right now.

"You know it's funny how we ended up becoming friends after Jack died," Pantone said thoughtfully, finally replacing the glasses on his nose again. "Somehow we two have more in common than you and Jack ever did."

Mac nodded but didn't say anything. This was a tricky topic that had loomed over their friendship for years, the proverbial elephant in the room that they had never discussed.

"I always doubted that he really was cut out for police work," Pantone continued, "but he was always trying to follow in my footsteps. As I did, myself, in fact. When I grew up, my father was the Sheriff in my little home town upstate, and all I ever wanted to do was to join the NYPD."

"Well, I can certainly relate to why you would want to do that."

"I guess I somehow blame myself for Jack's problems. Edith died when he was just a boy, and I had to raise him on my own. I was working around-the-clock and wasn't always there for him. Parenting is a _huge_ responsibility, Mac. I don't think I really understood that until it was too late. As it turns out, Jack never learned how to stay on the right side of the law."

"I really don't think you can blame yourself, Henry. Jack had a will of his own," Mac replied cautiously. "But you're right about him not being suited for police work. Internal Affairs were about to press bribery charges against him, just before he died. I always wondered if you knew about that."

Pantone nodded sadly. "It broke my heart."

"Well, did you also know that I agreed to testify against him?" Mac asked, watching the older man's face intently.

Sighing, Pantone reached over and patted Mac's shoulder. "Yes, but I want you to know it never made any difference to me. You had no choice, I realize that."

A noisy group of teenaged girls swarmed into the coffee shop and crowded around one of the tables in the middle of the room. The coffee shop staff exchanged resigned looks.

Mac looked down at his watch and pulled his medication out of his coat pocket. He gulped down three pills and pointed to the inhaler. "Can you believe it? I've been given an asthma inhaler in case I have an anxiety attack about breathing." He rolled his eyes as he handed the inhaler to his friend. "It's completely irrational, I know," he laughed, slightly embarrassed. "I have this weird feeling this thing will save my life, one day."

Pantone picked up the inhaler and studied the label closely. "No, it's not irrational at all," he said severely. "It'll still take weeks for your lungs to clear up. If you experience any trouble breathing, you're supposed to call this emergency number. My agents outside have the same number on their speed-dial." He pointed towards the street. "I assume you're taking your meds exactly like you're supposed to, right?"

A waitress approached their table, setting down a pitcher of iced water and handing them each a menu.

Mac waited for her to leave before replying. "_Of course_, I am," he said, offended at having been asked like a child. "I _always_ do what I'm told."

"Right," Pantone muttered, unconvinced, before looking down at his menu. "I can recommend the blueberry pie for dessert."

"Can't," Mac replied, searching for alternatives. "I'm allergic. Very."

"Oh? I never knew that." Pantone looked up at him in surprise. "Well, according my doctors, _I'm_ seriously allergic to this stuff here." He pointed to the inhaler before handing it back to Mac. "At least your life won't depend on you eating blueberries."

It immediately struck Mac as an odd thing to say. Glancing up, he saw that Pantone was watching his face closely, looking for some sign of comprehension. Mac was just about to ask what exactly he meant, when the waitress returned to take their orders.

"I don't understand," he finally said, when she had left again. "Are you telling me you have asthma, Henry?"

Pantone's face fell. "No, I'm not," he replied slowly. Mac found the look of deep disappointment on his friend's face almost unbearable. He sensed that their conversation had suddenly taken a wrong turn, and somehow it had been his fault. They sat for a while in an awkward silence.

With a loud thud, a college student dropped a stack of textbooks onto a table near them and sat down with a sigh. Bending down, he located a plug point under the table and attached his laptop to make use of the free Wi-Fi.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Henry," Mac finally said.

"Oh, I do?" Now it was Pantone's turn to look offended. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for one thing, why is the NTAS alert only elevated, not imminent? The public has a right to know that there already is a dangerous pathogen in the city. It's not just some vague threat."

They watched as a harried-looking mother chased her young daughter right past their table, while her husband wiped chocolate off their toddler son's shirt. Within seconds, both children were screaming crimson-faced, pointing at each other. The parents looked wistfully at the meal they had just been served, before starting to pack up to leave.

Pantone looked back at Mac and sighed. "Mac, you _know_ I share your views on this. In fact, I recommended an imminent alert, but I was overruled, and everyone else settled on an elevated alert. That's why I hate politics as much as you do. You'll be sorry to hear that this outcome was actually _your_ fault."

"_My_ fault?" Mac frowned. "How could this possibly be _my_ fault?"

"Because you apparently told Detective Danville two things that ended up swaying the vote. You said the balloon hadn't just floated down from the sky. And you recognized the man who most likely placed it at your crime scene. That information was a real game changer. It made everyone decide that this threat was directed against you, personally. It was exactly the excuse the Mayor needed to downplay the danger facing the city. He's already desperate to lift this balloon ban, before it costs him his reelection."

Pantone eyed Mac for a moment before continuing. "I actually think _you_ have some explaining to do, yourself. Do you have any idea of the ruckus you caused between the NYPD and DHS?"

"Well, tell Williams that I'm not sorry I slugged him," Mac huffed, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. "In fact, I'll gladly do it again, the next time I see him."

"You'd think you boys could just work it out." Pantone shook his head wearily and sighed again. "You gave Jerry quite a shiner, you know. His eye is still swollen shut. You should hear him trying to explain it around the office." A brief smile crossed his lips. "Somehow, he always forgets to mention the fact that you were bedridden at the time." Pantone paused to pour himself a glass of water. "Well, I guess somehow it's my own fault. I should have warned him not to underestimate you. What on _earth_ were you thinking, Mac?"

Mac uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. "Well, maybe you should have warned _me_ first, Henry. Williams treated me like a suspect, as if I had set _myself_ up with that damned balloon. When I overheard him tell the nurse to withhold my pain medication, I just snapped."

"Mac, you were in a public hospital, not _Guantanamo_," Pantone said crossly. "Do you think Hendricks just gave Jerry the run of the ward? I'm sure he was just making sure you were clear-headed. You should know that Jerry is ready to tear this city apart to find out who did this to you."

"Well, in that case would you _mind_ telling him to get his _snout_ out of my lab's IT systems?" Mac replied unkindly. "I don't know where he gets off snooping around in there."

"Jerry is just following standard DHS procedure," Pantone explained. "May I remind you that while you've been in hospital, we've been working around the clock trying to find out who's responsible. It could be the worst terrorist threat this city has faced since 9/11."

"It's Williams _interpretation_ of standard procedure that I'm worried about," Mac replied. "I really feel I need to warn you about him. My instincts tell me that you shouldn't trust him as readily as you do."

Pantone frowned. "You know, for a man of science, you rely on your _instincts_ an awful lot."

"That's because I was a Marine before I became a scientist, and my instincts have often saved my life. I know you think of Williams as determined, but he's also very ambitious and could easily be setting his sights on _your_ job. If you have a weakness, Henry, it's your loyalty towards someone like him. I just don't want him to stab you in the back."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about me." Pantone spread out his hands dismissively. "As his old NYPD training officer, I've known him since he was a rookie. He is completely loyal to me. I know he has a mind of his own, but I trust him implicitly, just as I trust you. You have a mind of your own, too. For some reason that I've never understood, you _never_ seem to do what you're told."

"C'mon, Henry," Mac replied defiantly. "I'm telling you that you're about to lose control of Williams, if you haven't done so already. You need to keep a better eye on him."

The waitress returned and set down two plates of towering BLT sandwiches with generous side orders of salad.

"Well, maybe I've been a little … preoccupied, lately." Pantone finally conceded before picking up his fork.

"How can you allow yourself to become _preoccupied_ at a time like this? I really worry that you're losing it, Henry. I know it's a harsh thing to say, and I don't want you to be offended. But you need your friends to be able to tell you the truth."

Displeased, Pantone grumbled for a minute before asking, "Has anyone ever told _you_ that you were losing it?"

As he ate, Mac gave it some serious thought. "Well actually, yes," he said. "Not in so many words, but more in her actions."

"And how did you react?" Pantone asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"I didn't speak to her for two years," Mac admitted with a weak smile. "And before you say anything, yes, I realize it was a _stupid_ thing to do."

"More like immature, if you ask me," Pantone replied with a smile. "So, is she still your friend?"

"Yes, very much so. I've only just realized that she was doing me a favor."

"Look, Mac, I _know_ you why you're so angry with me," Pantone added gently. "I'm really sorry I couldn't be there for you at Trinity. But you already know that Roberts asked me to recuse myself."

As he stared at Pantone, Mac was unexpectedly reminded of something that had happened when he was eight years old. He had been cycling along the ridge of a very steep hill behind his house, deliberately flouting his father's strict orders not to do so. Suddenly, his back wheel slipped, causing the bicycle to tilt sideways for a few long seconds before finally tipping over the edge. Careering down the sheer slope, he managed to skin both his knees and elbows before finally getting his leg tangled up in the spokes at the bottom, breaking his shin.

Somehow his mother found the strength to carry her son up the hill and drive to the hospital with him screaming in the back seat. She never left his side as his leg was set, and sat with her arms wrapped around him, while he waited impatiently for his father to finish his shift. But when he finally arrived, his father just stood outside in the corridor, talking to the doctors in a hushed voice, staring at Mac with his brow creased in consternation. He never comforted his son, and Mac never found out if it was because he blamed him for what had happened. The next summer, Mac defiantly perfected his cycling skills even closer to the edge of the ridge.

"I just think you're relying too much on Williams," Mac finally said quietly.

"But I _have_ to delegate to Jerry," Pantone replied, exasperated. "Before you picked up that balloon, I had 350 people working for me. Now it's closer to 500. I've got local and national TV networks calling my office around the clock for statements on that ridiculously vague NTAS alert. On top of that, I've got the Secretary, the Mayor and both Commissioners breathing down my neck." He retrieved the handkerchief from his pocked and began wiping his glasses again.

"Yesterday I spent all day in DC," he continued almost breathlessly, "briefing the House Subcommittee on Crime and Terrorism. You have to understand that I need to rely on Jerry doing whatever I can't do myself. And I'll admit to you that I mainly ask Jerry to take care of whatever he handles better than I do."

Mac looked skeptical. "Surely, there's nothing _he_ handles better than you do."

"C'mon, Mac, I know you must delegate to Detective Danville all the time. Tell me what tasks you give her, and I'll tell you what your own shortcomings as a manager are."'

"Are you _serious_?" Mac asked incredulously, and Pantone nodded with an encouraging smile.

"Okay, let me see," Mac said, willing to follow the Director's lead, "_apart_ from assisting me with crime scene investigations, budgeting, staff evaluations and recruitment …" He held up his hand and began counting on his fingers. "… Jo also oversees inventory, maintains contact with our suppliers, supervises trainees …"

Mac's mouth curled into a smile as he continued, "… maintains safety records, ensures compliance with quality control procedures ..."

Now he began to grin sheepishly. "… handles press contacts, organizes remedial staff training …" Finally, he threw his hands up in defeat and slumped back in his chair. "Christ, maybe I should be looking for another job."

Pantone chuckled. "No, Mac, you're doing a _great_ job with the Crime Lab. No one could do it better. My point is that _every_ manager needs to delegate. And I think it sounds like you're going to want to hold on to Detective Danville."

"Oh, I definitely intend to." Mac smiled wholeheartedly. "I realize she keeps me both _in_ my job and _out_ of trouble."

Suddenly, the gaggle of teenaged girls all began singing along raucously to the music, drowning out the rest of the conversation in the coffee shop. Mac drummed his fingers impatiently while they waited for the high-spirited chorus to finish.

Looking pained, Pantone looked down at his watch and retrieved his phone from the tabletop. Wordlessly, he indicated to Mac that he intended to leave now. He pulled out his wallet and counted out a few bills, before rising to his feet.

Waving his hands above his head, the coffee shop manager rushed out from the behind the counter to shush the lively girls. They rewarded him by ordering another expensive round of syrupy drinks.

"Henry, before you go," Mac said urgently, when they were finally able to talk again, "I really need you to tell me what we talked about last Saturday. It had something to do with my father, didn't it?"

About to button up his coat, Pantone looked down at him sharply. "Well, yes and no, actually. But what makes you think that?" he asked warily. "I thought you said you had no memory of our meeting."

"I _don't_," Mac replied firmly. "But after we met, I went home and opened a bottle of whiskey that my father had given me many years ago. At the time, I swore I would never open it."

His face inscrutable, Pantone stared at him, before finally pulling off his coat and sitting down again reluctantly. "Well, I'm not surprised you did. You were _very_ upset. I'm not even sure we should have that conversation again."

"Henry, I need to know _why_ I was so upset." Mac grabbed ahold of Pantone's sleeve.

For a moment, Pantone sat in silence, watching the lively bustle of customers all around them. "Have you ever had a day where you wake up, go about your daily routines, and then something happens to make your world fall apart? And afterwards, it dawns on you that you can never, ever get back to your previous life?"

"You know I have," Mac said quietly, wondering where this was leading. "And so have you. In fact, it was the day we met, nearly eleven years ago."

"Well, it happened to me again three months ago." Pantone was quiet for a minute before continuing. "It was just a routine check-up, which – I admit – I'd been putting off _way_ too long. I was always using my job as my excuse. I swear, the doctor did a double-take when he saw my chest X-ray. After that, he ran dozens of more tests, but everything pointed in the same direction. _Small-cell lung cancer._ I'm ashamed to admit it, but I broke down right there in the doctor's office and cried. All I've ever known about this disease is what you've told me about your father."

As Pantone spoke, a wave of dizziness washed over Mac. "Oh, Sweet Jesus!" he mumbled, covering his mouth with his hand in shock. "Are you _sure_?"

"I haven't brought myself to tell anyone yet, including my DHS superiors. Only you and Jerry know so far. I just can't _bear_ the way people react to this kind of news. It took a lot of resolve even to tell you last Saturday, but you've always been able to give me strength whenever I've been low." He shook his head ruefully. "But I have to tell you, I _never_ expected having to break the news to the _same_ person _twice_."

Mac had a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach."I'm _so_ sorry to hear that, Henry." He shook his head sorrowfully, his voice faltering. "I just can't … believe … I could _forget_ something like that."

"Well, I 'd say you had a pretty valid excuse, wouldn't you?" Pantone replied with a weak smile, trying hard to sound upbeat.

"What … is the prognosis?" Mac's mind was already fighting off a rush of unwelcome images of his father wasting away in a hospital bed at home.

Pantone drew a heavy breath before continuing. "You know as much about this disease as I do," he replied almost inaudibly. "This type of cancer is not curable, only treatable. Apparently, the cancer cells have already spread to my lymph nodes, which gives me an expected survival rate of 18 to 24 months. I've been told several promising treatments are currently being evaluated in clinical trials, but it'll be too late for me. A slow, undignified death is all I have to look forward to now, I'm afraid."

His hand still over his mouth, Mac sat for a while just staring at his friend, completely speechless. "How are you feeling now?" he finally heard himself ask feebly. "You don't look … sick."

"Well, I guess I've been feeling rather tired lately, but who doesn't? Maybe just a little bit short of breath, at times. Nothing more than that. I still can't really believe this is actually happening to me."

Mac shook his head empathically, unable to grasp the dreadful news himself.

"If Jack were still alive," Pantone continued, "I'd be telling him what the doctors told me, but I'm afraid it's just as relevant for you. There's a strong genetic factor in this disease. I know that Hendricks has only found anthrax spores in your lungs, but you're going to want to get yourself checked out regularly from now on, Mac."

There was a loud crash as the college student jumped eagerly up to greet his girlfriend, knocking all of his textbooks to the floor. Feeling everyone's eyes on them, the couple laughed self-consciously before kneeling down to gather up the books together.

"My father was a heavy smoker," Mac said, his eyes reverting back to his friend. "Apparently that's what triggered his illness. But I know _you've_ never smoked, Henry."

Pantone shook his head grimly and stared down at the table. "This actually gets even worse, Mac. I don't know how to prepare you for this," he said without looking up. "My doctors tell me I have asbestos fibers in my lungs. _That's_ what triggered my cancer."

"_Asbestos_!" Mac exclaimed, his eyes widening. "But how can that be? When were you ever exposed to _that_?"

"There is only _one_ possibility, Mac. And that's the day we met." His old friend looked him straight in the eye. "Remember when we first came across each other inside that dust cloud? I had just come back from searching for Jack in the wreckage of a bank building across Liberty Street from the Towers. I've since checked the records and found out that the bank building debris was heavily contaminated with asbestos."

"With Jack gone, I don't have any dependants any longer," he continued slowly, fighting for each word now, "but I've filed for WTC accidental line-of-duty combat death benefits, anyway. It's important to me that the connection to 9/11 is recognized, Mac." His voice faltered again, and Mac grabbed his hand. "The irony of all of this is not lost on me. They got me, the same way they got my son. It took eleven years – and I'd like to think that I've made a difference at DHS in the meantime – but in the end, the _bastards_ got me, as well."

Mac sat too stunned to reply. His mouth had gone dry, and his breath was suddenly caught in his throat. For a brief second, he looked down at the inhaler still lying on the table, wondering if he actually needed it now. "I just don't know what to say, Henry," he finally said, pouring himself a glass of water instead. "I can't think of anything more _awful_. No wonder I was upset last Saturday."

Pantone stared at Mac, studying his face carefully again, evidently debating whether to continue. "Yes, but, Mac, that's actually only the beginning." Making up his mind, he looked Mac right in the eyes. "I'm afraid what I said next _really_ upset you."

The awful sinking feeling returned to Mac's stomach. "Oh?" He stared back, unable to fathom how this could possibly get any worse.

"I asked you to do me a favor." Pantone said so quietly, it was almost a whisper. "But you turned me down."

Mac was baffled that he would have done so. "And what was it?" he asked, his voice gravelly now. He brought the glass to his lips and took a gulp of cold water.

"I asked you to kill me."

Pantone's timing couldn't have been worse. Mac gasped while swallowing, causing the water to flow down into his windpipe instead. As his hand flew up to his mouth, he knocked his glass over with his elbow, splashing water across the table. He coughed several times to clear his throat, and Pantone grabbed the inhaler to offer it to him, but Mac shoved his hand away.

Hearing the commotion behind her, one of the teenaged girls turned around and saw a man her father's age apparently choking on his food. But then she saw that his father was already holding out an asthma inhaler for him, and she turned her back to rejoin her girlfriends' conversation.

"I'm so sorry," Pantone said apologetically, once Mac was able to give him his attention again. "The same thing happened the _last_ time I told you this. You were drinking beer at the time."

Mac glanced up sharply to meet his friend's eyes. "Henry!" he said hoarsely. "The _next_ time you say it, would you do me the favor of checking that I'm not _drinking_ anything." He shook his head, furious at Pantone. "I really don't know what would possess you to joke about something like that."

"Oh, but I _wasn't_ joking, Mac. From what you've mentioned about your father's illness over the years, I've heard enough to make up my mind. I just cannot face the months of agony lying in ahead of me. "

"Oh my God! You're serious, and you _still_ want me to do it!" Unable to contain himself, Mac jumped to his feet and leaned in over the table. "How can you even _consider_ asking me to do this? You know I wouldn't – _couldn't_ – do it for my own father."

"Sit down, Mac," Pantone replied sternly, looking around. "You're attracting attention."

Nearby, the college student and his girlfriend both glanced up from sipping their chai. They glared disapprovingly at Mac for raising his voice at an old man.

"Yes, I know that," Pantone answered when Mac was seated again, "but I also know how much it has pained you that you _didn't_ do it. I know your mother told you how much your father suffered for _months_ after you turned him down. I just wonder if it was worth it to you. Would you really make the same decision again?"

Mac's mind seemed to be going in a dozen different directions at the same time, and it was an effort for him to respond as calmly as Pantone seemed to be expecting. Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain his standpoint as simply as possible. "As a Marine and a cop, I've killed people in the line of duty, but it has always been for a good reason. At the Crime Lab, I'm surrounded by violent death every day, but I still believe it is fundamentally _wrong_ to take a life. If I kill you, I'd be no different from the crooks I send behind bars every day."

"Yes you _would_, because I'm _asking_ you to do it. I happen to know that you feel strongly about dignity for the dying. Don't forget I read your health care proxy at Trinity. That's why Detective Bonasera is here in New York. Seeing you on that ventilator, unable to breathe, really brought it all home to me."

"Henry! You know as well as I do, that under New York law," Mac replied bitterly, "euthanasia is considered second-degree murder, regardless of whether the person has consented to being killed. In the eyes of the law, this is _completely_ different from withdrawing life-sustaining treatment. What you're asking me to do will send me to _prison _for life. Is that really what you had in mind for me?"

Frustrated, Pantone shook his head. "No, of course it isn't. The reason I'm asking _you_ is that – as the head of the Crime Lab – you're the only person I know who can get away with it."

"Who says it's even _possible_?" Mac replied, putting his hands on his head in exasperation.

"Well, is it?" Pantone asked expectantly.

Mac rolled his eyes. "I'm not _telling_ you, Henry! I still can't get over the fact that you're actually asking me to _kill_ you. _Please_ don't make me turn _you_ down, as well." Trying to control his voice, he leaned forward and added quietly, "I never thought I'd say this to anyone, but if you feel so strongly about this, have you considered taking your own life?"

"I couldn't possibly do that, Mac." Pantone shook his head vehemently. "I'm a strong believer that it is the road to eternal damnation."

Mac stared at him, incredulous. "What, and asking me to kill you somehow _isn't_? Won't that just send _me_ to hell in your place?"

"No, because I'm asking you to do this as a friend. You'd be doing it out of the goodness of your heart."

"Christ Almighty!" Mac's frustration rose again. "If you feel that way, why don't you ask Williams instead? He seems to be pretty unscrupulous about _fiddling_ with medication."

"Well, I might just do that," Pantone huffed, crossing his arms. "But I still need you to tell him how to get away with it."

"Henry, I was joking!" Mac exclaimed. "Are you _seriously_ asking me to instruct the man whom I attacked last week – whom I've just _warned_ you against – on how to kill you, one of my oldest friends? Are you completely out of your _mind_?" He gave his friend his most withering stare, the one he usually only reserved for suspects in custody – and his NYPD superiors.

Returning the stare, Pantone scowled and replied obstinately, "Actually, I think it would be the easiest solution for everyone. Jerry wouldn't think twice about doing this for me, and it would get you out of your bind."

"_Easy_?" Mac spluttered. "I can't possibly think of anything more _complicated_! If I tell Williams how to get away with the perfect murder, I'd be compromising my integrity _and_ I'd still have your death on my conscience." He lowered his voice before making one last earnest appeal to his friend. "_Please_, Henry! You have to understand why I can't do this."

For a while, the two men sat unmoving, glowering at each other. Finally, Pantone's features softened and he shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry you feel that way, but I guess I can't really blame you." He stood up and began putting his coat on again. "I've really got to get back to the office now. It's entirely my fault we're arguing. I realize I should _never_ have mentioned this in the first place. I suppose it's too late now to ask you to forget all about this _again_?" He smiled weakly before turning to leave.

Realizing that he needed to act quickly, Mac jumped to his feet and grabbed Pantone's coat sleeve. When the older man turned around, he put his arm around his shoulder. "No, Henry, _I'm_ the one who's sorry," he said sincerely. "None of this changes what your friendship means to me, or how sad I am to hear that you're ill."

Still shaken, Mac watched as his friend walked to the front door, nodding briefly to acknowledge the two men in the car, before stepping out onto the street. Mac realized that he had walked into the coffee shop expecting to get some simple answers from the DHS Director. Now it felt more like he was freewheeling down a steep hill once again, and he worried about what lay ahead of him. What had never been the most straightforward of friendships had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

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><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 7 – "The Second Balloon"<strong> Mac, Jo and Stella have a close encounter with another balloon


	7. The Second Balloon

**Author's note: **Thanks to all my regular and irregular reviewers for telling me that you're interested in another chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 7 – "The Second Balloon"<strong>

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><p>Emerging from the elevator on the 34th floor, Mac Taylor had only taken a few steps when he was waylaid by a newly-hired technician eager to discuss inventory discrepancies with the boss.<p>

Jo happened to be standing with Adam at the top of the stairs to the Crime Lab when Mac arrived. As the elevator doors opened below, she spotted him rubbing his eyes, looking decidedly the worse for wear. The moment he saw the technician approach, however, he let his hand drop to his side. With unexpected patience, he was now listening to the man's speculations about stock-out and order cycles. Frowning, he paged aimlessly through the technician's stack of database printouts, obviously unable to make heads or tails of his grievances.

Watching him from above, Jo's eyebrows gathered in concern. For his own sake, she had hoped that Mac would spend the day resting at home. But admittedly she wasn't too displeased to see him again so soon. The past week she had sorely missed his steadfast company and quiet humor, and running the lab while he was seriously ill in hospital had been a dismal task. She was looking forward to him gradually easing back into their close daily partnership at the Lab. Yet inventory supervision had always been _her_ designated responsibility. So why on earth was Mac now suddenly taking the task upon himself?

Jo quickly handed the large envelope adorned with the seal 'Office of the Mayor' in her hands back to Adam.

"Hide this," she told Adam quietly. "There is just _no_ way we're showing this to Mac. Go back and pester City Hall once again to tell us who is sending him these letters. We'll talk about this later, Adam."

Adam gave her an anxious glance, before looking nervously down at the envelope in his hands. "But the boss has a right to know there's someone _else_ after him."

"_Later_, Adam," she repeated, before sprinting down the stairs to come to Mac's aid.

Glancing up from the printouts, Mac's scowl melted into an appreciative smile when he saw her approach.

"Jo," he said simply.

"There's no need to fret yourself about this, Mac," she said lightly, stepping in between the two of them. "Everything is in order here," she assured the technician. "If you think you found any discrepancies, the fault will be on the supplier side."

She tugged gently at Mac's sleeve, steering him away from the disappointed tech. "How are you feeling today?" she asked him. "We didn't really expect to see you back again so soon."

"I'm actually much better," he replied, glancing sideways at her long enough for their eyes to lock. In spite of himself, his eyes told her he wasn't, and he quickly looked away again.

Walking down the hallway beside him as he greeted his smiling staff, Jo noticed how his features were less drawn and his movements less constrained than yesterday. Even the smoldering anger that he had vented in the conference room appeared to have dissipated again. Yet, somehow, the desolation that she had witnessed in Central Park last Sunday morning had returned to haunt his eyes again.

When they got to his office, he sat down wearily on his office chair. He looked briefly over the stacks of papers that had accumulated on his desk during his absence. Swiveling around to glance at his computer, he flinched.

"It appears I'll need a _machete_ to get any work done today," he said dryly, a brief smile crossing his lips.

She laughed and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mac. While you were away, it just made more sense for me to use your office instead. Look, they're actually color-coded by day of the week."

Squinting to decipher the scrawled handwriting, Mac looked at the dense undergrowth of post-its that encircled his computer screen. "I just hope they're not all for me."

"Don't worry, everything has already been taken care of." She leaned over him to yank the entire colorful garland of post-its off the monitor. "I'd say you have an awful lot on your plate in an average workweek, though. Maybe you should think about delegating more to me."

"Actually," he said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "I was thinking I should be delegating _less_. Let's face it. At the end of the day, I don't have anyone waiting at home for me, unlike you."

Jo had just taken a deep breath to hotly contest this proposal, when they were interrupted by a severe-looking young man carrying a clipboard. Entering the office without knocking, the man walked boldly up to Mac's desk and handed him a large greengrocer brown envelope stamped "Top Secret" in red ink.

Puzzled, Mac glanced down at his name handwritten on the front, before turning it over to read the name signed and stamped across the seal on the back. "Am I supposed to sign for this?" he asked with a frown.

"No need, I know what you look like." The man briefly turned his clipboard around to reveal an attached copy of Mac's official ID photo. Then their unidentified visitor turned around and left as abruptly as he had come.

"What!" Jo gasped, turning to Mac in alarm. "Who the _hell_ was that? Should I call building security? You might want to think twice about opening that."

His mind racing, Mac stared down at the heavy envelope now in his hands, trying to work out what it could possibly contain. "It's all right, Jo," he reassured her. "It's from Henry. I've just had lunch with him. He must have dispatched this as soon as he got back to his office."

He slid his thumb down the slit and pulled a thick manila folder from the envelope. Flipping quickly through the thick sheaf of photocopied pages, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked up and tilted the file for Jo to see. "It's a copy of my medical records from Trinity General."

Jo didn't fail to notice the words TOP SECRET/ORCON/FOUO printed in red at the top of every single page. "I don't understand," she replied. "Have they suddenly been declassified?"

Now Mac was searching back and forth in the file for a specific page. "No, I'm hoping Henry wants to reassure me about something." Finally, he gave up and sighed heavily with frustration. "But I can't make it out. It's all too technical for me." He stretched out to reach for his desk phone.

"Sid, could you come up when you have a moment?" he said very calmly, alarming the Medical Examiner at the other end.

Having delegated the autopsy he was performing to an assistant, Sid scrubbed up and arrived at Mac's office only minutes later, still smelling of soap. Mac closed the blinds to his office and invited the doctor to take a seat on one of the two low-slung Barcelona sofas. Without a word, he handed him the file before sitting down with Jo across from him, watching the older man's face intently.

Shaking his head in wonderment, Sid clipped on his glasses and paged respectfully through the file. "You know, in all my years as a medical professional, I've never seen a patient file with this level of detail before. It's like being right inside you, Mac."

Mac smiled self-consciously. "You know, it's actually quite unsettling to hear that from a pathologist."

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry," the kindly man quickly added, before his eyes were drawn back to the file again. "I can see that I was right about your amnesia being caused by the infection. That means you'll most likely never recover your missing memories, I'm afraid."

"That's quite all right," Mac reassured him. "Believe me, when I tell you that I won't be missing them. What I specifically want you to find, Sid, is what it says about my _lungs_."

Jo noticed that Mac was sitting the edge of his seat now, transfixed by the manila file in Sid's hands. He pulled what looked like an inhaler out of his back pocket and was fiddling with it between his fingers. Sensing his anxiety, she quietly slid her hand into his, and he squeezed it tightly.

"Oh no!" the mild-mannered doctor suddenly exclaimed in abject horror, making Jo and Mac jump in their seats. Snapping off his glasses, he shook his head morosely. "It pains me to tell you this, Mac, but it says here that your lungs are still full of anthrax spores."

Recovering his breath again, Mac slipped the inhaler back into his trouser pocket. "Yes, but is that all?" he asked impatiently. "Nothing else?"

Both Jo and Sid stared at him, astonished at how well he was handling the dreadful news.

"_Is that_ _all?_" Jo repeated, shaking her head incredulously. "Mac, most people would think that's quite _enough_."

"Why, yes, that's _all_," Sid replied seriously, also without comprehension. "You're going to need to take a combination of powerful antibiotics to keep the spores from growing into bacteria. I don't think I need to emphasize how vital it is for you to take your medication on time."

Without taking his eyes off the Medical Examiner, Mac sat back and exhaled audibly. "You mean these?" he asked, pulling three vials out of his jacket pocket.

Jo gasped. "Mac, are you telling us that you already _knew_ about the spores, but were expecting something even _worse_?" She tilted her head, trying earnestly to understand what was on his mind. "But what could possibly be worse than anthrax? You know you were lucky it didn't kill you in _minutes_."

Unwilling to burden her with his worries, he just shook his head slowly, looking forlorn again. Jo fought to resist her maternal urge to wrap her arms around him before literally shaking him and demanding to know what was going on. She could understand it if he were still distraught by his near-fatal attack, but whatever was bothering him now appeared to be completely unrelated.

"Oh, Mac, what kind of a _scary_ place are you _in_?_"_ she exclaimed and settled for putting her hand on his shoulder. "You know you really shouldn't be fretting about this alone."

"Don't worry about me, Jo," he replied. "My world just got a lot less scary. Especially with _you_ around." He squeezed her hand again before getting up to thank Sid for coming by.

As she watched the Medical Examiner leave, Jo felt a slight twinge of disappointment. Whenever they seemed to be getting closer, Mac always instinctively drew back, even if the initiative had been his own. For some reason, he could never quite let himself go, although she was almost sure he wanted to.

Jo picked up the file and flipped through it thoughtfully, staring at the red dissemination control abbreviations at the top of each page. "You know, this is incontrovertible evidence that the Mayor is covering up the presence of anthrax in New York City. Pantone sure is showing great faith in you by giving you this. Please tell me you're going to keep this to yourself, Mac."

"Once again, you don't need to worry, Jo," he reassured her. "I'll keep this right here in my safe." He leaned over to twirl the combination lock of the safe beside his desk and put away the file.

"What exactly did you get out of your lunch with Pantone?" she asked Mac, suddenly working out the connection between the DHS Director and Mac's recent mood swings.

He sighed and briefly covered his mouth and nose with his hands. "He confirmed that the helium reduced the effect of the balloon, and told me they're looking at laboratory staff right now. It's nothing we didn't know already. I couldn't get him to recall Williams from accessing our systems, though."

Seeing the understanding that had dawned in her eyes, he realized he owed her more of an explanation. "We're leaving Henry alone from now on, Jo. He's _preoccupied_, is the word I think he used. He has told me that he is seriously ill with cancer _twice_ now, once last Saturday and again at lunch today. I'm _mortified_ that I could have forgotten it the first time around." That was as much as she needed to know.

Jo nodded her head sympathetically. "He seemed pretty shook up when we first met him at Trinity General. I can only imagine it's all pretty complicated for you now. Not only is he your old friend, but you've also just picked a fight with his Assistant, who is officially investigating your case."

"_Complicated_?" Mac sighed wearily. "I'm afraid complicated doesn't even _begin_ to cover it, Jo. In fact, I don't think the word for this has even been invented yet. We've got to get back to investigating this ourselves. Where are we on that cemetery right now?"

"I didn't know how you wanted to call it," she replied, "so I asked Adam to see what he could find out about Beth Shalom. As long as we've still got Williams snooping around, Adam knows better than any of us what we can do on and off the grid."

Opening the blinds again, Mac saw Don striding down the hall towards his office in search of him. When he saw Mac, Don's face lit up and he dashed in through the door.

He grinned as he slung his arm around Mac's shoulder. "Oh man, am I glad to see you back on your feet again." Unabashed, he pulled his friend into a bear hug and lightly slapped his back. "You had me so scared last Sunday. I never thought I'd be standing here in your office, hugging you like this. But I _swore_ to myself at Trinity that I'd do so, if I ever got the chance."

"Thanks for saving my life, Don," Mac said appreciatively. "I guess that evens out the score."

"Hey, who's keeping score here?" Don said, beaming as he held Mac's shoulders in his outstretched arms. "For you, Mac, I'd do it a hundred times over."

"I'm kind of hoping that won't be necessary," Mac replied, still a little overwhelmed by his friend's emotions.

"I've got some unfinished business with Adam," Jo said, excusing herself. "I'll be right back."

When she arrived at Adam's workstation, the bearded young tech leapt off his chair and thrust the envelope at her. "Jo, I simply can't get any work done with this burning a hole in my desk."

"You didn't even _open_ it?" she asked, surprised.

"What if it's … you know … _contaminated_?" he whispered back nervously.

"Adam, we checked the first two letters and they were clean," she reassured him. "No need to get your panties in a twist over this one. No one at City Hall is dabbling with … _anthrax_," she whispered in his ear with feigned menace.

Frowning, she slit open the envelope with a ruler and pulled out a thick stack of colorful children's drawings. One by one, she held them up to take a closer look at the many different pictures, all variations on the same birthday theme. Some of them had bright lettering scrawled across the paper in crayon. "pLEas M.R. mayor I wAnT My bALoNs BaK" and "MaYor GiV mE My KittY BALLOON!" were some of the most legible texts.

Holding them in her outstretched hands, she tilted her head slightly. "Well, once again, the messages are succinct and to the point," she critiqued. "Great narrative, poignant illustrations, imaginative use of color. City Hall could really learn one thing or two from the first-graders in this great city."

Jo handed the drawings to Adam, who filed them with the previous ones in a large folder on his desk.

"So did you find out who is sending these?" she asked, her face serious again. "This is not a joke. Some jackass at the Mayor's Office is seriously compromising Mac's anonymity by sending him this stuff."

Nodding weakly, Adam blanched, his mind already conjuring up alarming images. "You mean Mac could be overrun by a horde of angry first-graders? How awful! There'd be little _footprints_ all over him."

"Adam!" she said impatiently. "Get your imagination out of overdrive and tell me _who_ is behind this," she demanded impatiently. "Why on earth has City Hall been so cagey about telling us?"

Adam looked around furtively and leaning in closer to Jo. "_It's … the … Mayor … himself_," he finally mouthed inaudibly.

"What!" Jo exploded, throwing her arms in the air. "He blames Mac _personally_ for his balloon ban problems? Just because he's losing the family vote? How incredibly _petty_ of him!" She fumed for a moment, crossing her arms and drumming her fingers on her biceps. "This city is just _full_ of little boys who need their _bottoms_ _smacked_!"

Adam winced at the unpleasant thought. "The drawings are quite innocent, I think," he said.

"I know _that_, Adam," she sighed, "but forwarding them to Mac in this way actually constitutes aggravated harassment. In fact, the law considers repeated nonconsensual communication like this to be _stalking_."

"Oh no," Adam breathed anxiously, his hands clasped to his head. "You mean Mac will need to take out a restraining order against the _Mayor_ now?"

"Actually," Jo reflected, "if he ever finds out about this, it'll be the _Mayor_ needing protection from _Mac_. You heard what he did to the DHS Assistant Director. You've got to talk to someone in the mailroom, Adam. We need to keep fielding these letters, so Mac never hears about this."

"Speaking of the devil ..." Adam said quietly, trying to signal nonchalantly with his eyes that Mac was in fact walking up behind Jo's back.

In one fell swoop, Jo tore open the top drawer of Adam's desk and swept the file down into it.

Walking beside Don, Mac stopped abruptly when he saw Jo and Adam turn around to smile brightly at him.

"What?" he asked suspiciously, his arms akimbo.

Jo looked at him innocently, before pointing over his shoulder. "Oh, look who's coming over there!"

Don and Mac turned around to see Lindsay and Danny approaching with Lucy swinging from their hands, between them. An unavoidable two-hour overlap in their shifts had meant that Lindsay had brought Lucy to work with her.

"Uncle Mac!" the girl exclaimed, letting go of her parents and running towards her godfather.

Smiling, Mac squatted down with one knee on the floor and put out his arms for his goddaughter. Lucy slammed into his arms so enthusiastically that she practically knocked him off his feet. He quickly put one hand on the floor to keep from falling over, while she wrapped her arms around his neck and clambered up to stand on his lap.

"Mac, you can't be in too good shape," Danny said with a smirk, "if you can be floored by a four-year-old."

Adam's mind was still filled with images of a stampede of little children overwhelming his boss, and he glanced anxiously at Jo for reassurance. With a smile, she just closed her eyes and shook her head imperceptibly.

"What on _earth_ are you feeding her?" Mac asked Danny indignantly, trying to recover his balance with two small hands still clasped to his face.

Lucy put her hands on her hips and scolded her father. "Daddy, I'm nearly _five_!"

"I like your sneakers, Lucy," Mac said and pointed to the kitten on her left shoe. "Hello Kitty," he said, and then he pointed to her right shoe, "and Mimmy, right?"

"Daddy!" the girl demanded. "How come _Uncle Mac_ knows the difference and _you_ don't?"

Mac looked up at Danny with an undeniably superior smile.

"Mac, I just can't believe how much _mileage_ you're getting out of that," Jo marveled.

"That's why he's the head of the Crime Lab," Danny said grudgingly. "His amazing attention to detail."

"No, it's because _someone_ was actually _listening_ when I explained it to him," Lindsay reminded her husband. She turned to Mac with an empathetic smile. "Are you feeling better now? You've stopped coughing."

"Yes, I have," he realized and smiled down at the girl now nestled comfortably on his lap. "Are _you_ feeling better too, Lucy?"

Looking up into his eyes, Lucy nodded gravely before screwing up her face to ask a burning question. "How come Captain Hook threw pixie dust on you? Did he steal it from Tinker Bell and the other fairies?"

"Erm …" Mac glanced helplessly up at the two smiling mothers watching him, his complete lack of comprehension evident.

"Aw, Mac," Jo clucked in sympathy, "and you were just doing so _well_."

Lindsay blushed at having put her boss in this situation. "Lucy wanted to know why you were in hospital," she explained to him. "I obviously couldn't tell her about the … you know … _A-word_, so I made up a little story instead. You know, Mac, Neverland?"

Sighing, Mac shook his head as he got up off the floor with Lucy's arms still wrapped around his neck.

"Does Lucy realize that Mac is the reason there won't be any _B-words_ at her birthday party?" Jo asked the girl's parents.

"She doesn't know about that yet." Danny shook his head. "Lindsay and I are still trying to work out who's going to break the news to her."

Rolling his eyes, Mac handed his goddaughter back to her parents. "Surely children can celebrate their birthdays without … _B-words_."

Jo and Adam exchange glances. "Whatever you say, boss," Adam stuttered.

His eyebrows furrowed, Mac studied Adam's face closely in an attempt to work out what could possibly be bothering the young technician. Giving up, he finally asked him, "Any news on Beth Shalom?"

"Uhm, yes, I followed up on that severed …" Adam began, before pausing to glance over at Lucy. Standing across from her parents, he decided not to underestimate the intellect of the youngest Messer. "… _A-word_ you found in Central Park."

"And you were right, Jo," he continued, still eyeing the smiling girl nervously. "I went to see the _R-word_ at Beth Shalom, who confirmed that one of the two desecrated _G-words_ indeed had contained the _B-word_ of a _H-word_ survivor from the _A-word_ labor camp, which explains the identification number _T-word_ you saw, Jo."

He was on a roll now. "Then I asked a friend at the Department of _T-word_ to check," he added breathlessly, "and he found a _T-word_ _C-word_ across from the only entrance to the _C-word_, and the _S-word_ _C-word_ recorded a _V-word_ parked there just after _M-word _on Saturday night, which just narrowly fits our time frame, right? So he managed to pull an image of the _L-word_ P_-word,_ which not surprisingly had been stolen …" Gradually, he began to run out of steam and slowed down again.

"Daddy!" Lucy exclaimed, looking indignantly up at her father once again. "You said your job was _hard_, but it's just like _pre-school_! _We're_ learning the alphabet, as well!"

"Phew, I really don't think I can do this any longer …" Adam said, looking around at his open-mouthed colleagues.

"Good thing, too," Mac said dryly, "because you really lost us there at the end."

Despite his words, however, he had been the only one who had kept up with Adam. The others still looked dazed, as if they had just stepped off a Coney Island ride.

"So you've got a license plate," Mac summarized for the rest of them. "Good for you, Adam. Midnight sounds a bit late, though. I hadn't really expected that."

"Wow!" Danny exclaimed with unabashed admiration for both Adam and Mac. "Not even Homeland Security could break that level of encryption!"

Turning to instruct Don, Mac added wearily, "Flag Adam's license plate for all ALPR surveillance cameras in the city, so we can get GPS coordinates on that van." He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing. "Whatever you do, Don, don't give us any information by email or phone. I'll meet you at the precinct instead."

"Hey there," Don said with a smile, "what time did you get to bed last night?"

Mac cast his mind back to what already seemed like an eternity ago. "I didn't, actually. I woke up on my couch this morning," he admitted in wonder. "I must have dozed off at some point in the evening."

At that moment, Stella came walking down the hallway, her smiled broadening as she saw everyone standing together.

"Mac?" she said. "I _thought_ I heard your voice. How are you doing today?"

"I'm ... much better, thank you," he replied, wary of the annotations in her Mac-speak dictionary.

"Hey, I'm so glad to hear that," she said sincerely and patted his shoulder, before kneeling down to talk to Lucy. "I was wondering where _you'd_ gotten to."

Gently holding the child's hand, Stella looked up self-consciously to catch Mac's eyes watching her closely. Since he knew she hadn't shared her news with anyone else yet, he just reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "You'll be fine, Stella," he told her.

"Whatever happened to that toy microscope you once had in your office?" she asked him as she straightened up again. "I promised Lindsay I'd help keep Lucy entertained for the next two hours."

Mac looked blankly at her for a moment, before realizing what she meant. "Oh, that!" he exclaimed.

Several years earlier, the Crime Lab had spent a whole day looking after a little boy who had lost both his parents, before an overworked Child Protective Services officer finally had the time to take over. It was during the usual busy pre-Christmas period, when cases were stacking up on everyone's desks as the bodies piled up in Sid's morgue. Yet suddenly, the head of the Lab had grabbed his coat and inexplicably disappeared for half an hour, before coming back with a high-end children's microscope to occupy the boy.

"It'll be in a cardboard box in one of the base cabinets or wall cases over in the AV lab," Mac said. "Here, let me show you," he offered and left together with Stella and Lindsay, who now had Lucy swinging between them.

Watching in wonderment as they headed for the AV lab, Jo looked back and caught Don and Danny exchanging baffled glances.

"Oh … my … God!" Danny exclaimed, running his hands furiously through his hair. "Yesterday Mac and Stella weren't even _speaking_ to each other. I've never seen anyone make up so fast! There is only _one_ possible way that could have happened."

Jo looked doubtful. "I don't really know. To me, they just look like they're friends again."

"Nope, Danny's right," Don interrupted her, his mouth still agape. "At dinner last night, Stella happened to mention that she wasn't tired because she had taken a _nap_ on Mac's couch. I just can't believe they're being so _casual_ about it now."

"What _are_ you guys talking about?" Jo asked skeptically. "Danny, you saw Mac in the conference room yesterday. He really didn't look like he was up for anything _energetic_ later on."

"Well, all I can say is that he certainly had us fooled," he replied, shaking his head. "I know you've worked as an FBI profiler, but when it comes to Mac, we have a head start on you, Jo. You weren't here when Stella left the Crime Lab. Mac hated being fussed over by her, and they ended arguing about it for _weeks_ afterwards. For the last two years, none of us have been able to even mention the _P-word_ around Mac," he said. "That would be the _N-word_ to you, Flack," he couldn't resist adding, making his friend roll his eyes. "There is just _no_ way the two of them erased all of that by just _talking_ yesterday."

Jo shook her head in disbelief. "Somehow, I find that really hard to believe. I don't think that's what's going on here."

Two hours later, Don had left and Danny had taken Lucy home with him. Jo found Stella sitting on her own in the conference room, and she decided to join her. Stella looked up and smiled as Jo sat down across from her.

"I've decided to stay on in New York a little longer, Jo," Stella told her candidly. "Maybe I'm taking this health care agent role too far, but I get this feeling that Mac is not all right. I think this whole balloon business has gotten to him more than he's willing to admit. I want to help him, if I can."

"I think you're right about that, Stella," Jo replied and nodded, before adding, "So does that mean that you and he are now …?" She held up her hand with two fingers crossed.

"What gave you that idea?" Stella's eyebrows flew up, and she shook her head with a peal of laughter. "Do you know why I left two years ago?" she asked. "Has Mac really _never_ said anything to anyone?"

"Oh, you know what he's like, Stella," Jo said with a sigh. "He never says much about anything. But once he told me he _really_ regretted what had happened. Of course, I can only presume that he meant he should have seen a doctor sooner about his pneumonia. That doesn't really make any sense, I know, because he hasn't exactly changed his ways in that respect, since then."

"Has he never told you anything about what actually happened during the five days I stayed with him?"

"Well, come to mention it," Jo revealed slowly, watching Stella's face carefully, "he _did_ once let it slip that you … really tested the limits of his … _endurance_."

"Mac actually said _that_?" Stella was incredulous.

"I'm sure he meant no offence, of course." Jo's lips curled into a broadening smile as she spoke.

"No offence taken." Stella smiled to herself as she studied the back of her hands thoughtfully. Looking up at Jo, she added, "Just for the record, the feeling was _entirely_ mutual."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ it was," Jo nodded knowingly. "It's the _only_ way."

The former and present Crime Lab Assistant Supervisors sat for a minute, just smiling wordlessly at each other.

Jo blinked a few times before asking, "So, what you're saying is that Mac's actually very …?"

"Yes, _very_." Stella closed her eyes and nodded briefly, before looking back at Jo. "Being bad never felt so good, Jo."

Jo exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair. "I guess it doesn't really surprise me. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"

"My thoughts exactly." Stella grinned and then was quiet for a moment. "Just two things, Jo," she finally said, holding up two fingers. "One, you're going to want to go _slow_."

Jo nodded appreciatively. "I can do slow."

"And two," Stella added carefully, "you must never … _ever_ … leave him." She leaned forward, getting Jo to do the same. "Or I will _hunt you down_."

As she leaned back in her chair again, Jo shook her head with a laugh. "Oh, there'll be no need for that, Stella."

Going home after an exhausting day's work, Adam walked past the open door to the conference room and glanced over at the two women smiling enigmatically at each other. He shook his head repeatedly as he walked to the elevators, trying to work out if his ears really had heard Stella threaten Jo about Mac. Unlike his remarkable boss, his own nerves were already ragged by the dreadful specter of anthrax, and he wasn't sure he could handle any more anxiety. Maybe the best solution would be to call in sick a few days, he wondered, at least until the fallout had settled.

Seeing Stella's eyes catch something over her shoulder, Jo turned around to discover it was the three stick figures Lindsay had drawn on the whiteboard the day before. Out of discretion, Lindsay had erased the labels for the two profiles, but she had left Mac's name and the double-headed arrow over his head. Recognizing the accuracy of the situation, the two women burst out laughing.

An hour later, Stella and Jo showed up at Mac's office, where he was still busy catching up on all of the cases that had crossed his desk during his absence. It was early evening now, and most of the staff had already left the Crime Lab for the day.

"I've made a dinner reservation for Jo and me tonight," Stella said lightly. "Why don't you join us, Mac?"

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at them. Then he sighed and waved his hand over the papers he'd organized in stacks on his desk. "I've still got so much to do here."

"I know exactly what I left for you on your desk," Jo said, "and it's not that much. You really have no excuse, Mac."

"I still have to read _this_ report," he replied defiantly, picking it up the thickest publication he could find, before flipping it around so that he could actually read its title. "'Reference manual to mitigate potential bioterrorist attacks against buildings'," he read out aloud. "Christ!" he muttered to himself and tossed the FEMA report back onto his desk in disgust.

"I've already read that report cover-to-cover," Jo said. "And you've already implemented all the relevant safety measures here at the Lab yourself, years ago." She came around his desk and put her hands on his shoulder. "C'mon, I bet you don't even have any food back at your place, anyway."

"I'll have you know that my fridge is actually full," he said, looking up at her smugly. "In fact, I could hardly close the door."

"Oh?" Jo said, calling his bluff. "And what exactly have you got in there?"

"Erm, a watermelon," he admitted reluctantly.

"Mac," Jo exclaimed, "watermelons are 90% water! Okay, _that_ settles it, you're coming with us now." Grabbing onto both his arms, she gently pulled him out of his chair.

Stella was already holding out his coat for him, and he slipped into it sullenly. As they left his office, he buried his hands deep in his coat pockets, unintentionally inviting Stella and Jo to loop their arms through his on either side of him.

Walking down the corridor between his two smiling Assistant Supervisors, he was acutely aware of the heads turning among the few remaining staff members at the Crime Lab.

The three of them took a taxi to a seafood and sushi restaurant overlooking the greenmarket on Union Square West. Getting out of the taxi, they walked along an elevated veranda with giant glowing heat lamps, enclosed by an ornate wrought-iron fence, that faced the Square. Located in what formerly had been the Metropolitan Bank, the restaurant entrance was boxed in between two giant ionic columns on its façade. As they went inside, Mac spotted Pantone's agents already parked beside the veranda.

The spacious dining room was adorned with large, dimly-lit chandeliers and enough brass to sink a battleship. Above their heads, a mezzanine floor overlooked the bustling crowd of diners and waiters below. Since he only dined out infrequently, Mac was surprised at how busy the place was on an ordinary weekday, but he found the overall buzz a welcome change from another night home on his own.

To Stella's chagrin, their table had accidentally been double-booked. Instead, an apologetic waiter led them down an ornate marble staircase with votive candles on each step to a rich, red-hued jazz lounge. Mac noticed a sign warning patrons that the room was in fact a former gold bullion vault, which meant there would be no cell phone reception inside.

They declined a table front and center by the jazz ensemble, preferring instead a table farther from the music, but they readily accepted the complimentary champagne offered in compensation for the mix-up. Mac joined Stella and Jo in a toast to his speedy recovery, but – mindful of his medication – he didn't actually drink any.

At first, he was troubled by the lack of cell phone reception, but then he was easily distracted as soon as their food was served. Suddenly their table was covered with dishes of blackened swordfish, softshell crabs with shrimp and scallops, wood-grilled mahi mahi, and little crab cakes that melted in his mouth.

While Stella and Jo chose to share a Californian white wine recommended by their attentive waiter, he settled for yet another pitcher of iced water. Looking down at father's watch, he remembered to take his pills, which didn't escape the attention and silent approval of his companions.

Over dinner, Stella revealed her good news to Jo, who immediately leaned over and hugged her warmly. Another joyful toast of wine and water was made in honor of Stella and her future adopted child. The rest of the conversation quickly focused on the joys and tribulations of having children. Wincing at the endless stories of diapers and baby spittle while they ate, Mac looked over and saw how eagerly Stella was taking in all of Jo's advice. He wondered briefly how different his own life would have been with children, and decided there was no point in speculating about it, since it would have been completely unrecognizable.

Sitting between them, Jo had her head turned to talk to Stella most of the evening, so Mac just leaned back and listened to the classic jazz trio, mesmerized by the double bass. He relaxed as he felt the rhythm reverberate in the pit of his stomach, and discovered that his fingers were actually tapping along on the tabletop. At long last, he forgot completely about the balloon, his father, Pantone's impossible request, and even everyone else in the room, until all that was left was just him and the bass.

By the time they got back out into the bracing evening air, they discovered there had been a torrential downpour while they had eaten. Now the streets were glistening wet, and there were no longer available taxis anywhere in sight. Stella and Jo insisted that Mac was too drunk to walk home six blocks on his own, jointly overriding his protests that he was in fact stone-sober. Ever the gentleman, he offered to walk closest to the curb to shield them from the splashes of passing cars, but they opted for looping their arms into his again.

As they walked, Jo and Stella resumed their conversation about adoption and children, which apparently was easiest to do by leaning back and talking behind his back, leaving the navigation to him. Eventually, dragging the two of them down the sidewalk like this proved too taxing for him, so he pulled his hands out of his pockets and slipped out of their arms. Walking a few paces ahead of them, he tried to stay out of earshot, since he heard his name mentioned far too often for Jo and Stella to have stayed on topic.

Looking back a few times, he saw one of Pantone's agents following them on foot a block behind them. When they arrived at his apartment building, he saw the other agent had parked in front of the entrance.

"Thanks for helping me find my way home, ladies," he announced, his cell phone already in his hand. "I think it's about time that I call you two a cab."

"I happen to know that Mac keeps a bottle of what looks like an excellent bourbon in his sideboard cupboard," Stella told Jo with a grin.

Mac's mouth dropped open and he looked daggers at Stella.

"I didn't know you were a secret drinker, Mac," Jo said, looking at him in a new light.

"Not _this_ again," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, Mac. We graciously accept your kind invitation for a night cap," Jo replied, ignoring him at the same time. "You're always such a gentleman," she said and kissed him on the cheek.

It suddenly started to rain heavily again, and Mac held open the entrance door as Stella and Jo sprinted inside. In the elevator, they were both laughing and giggling more than a single shared bottle of wine warranted, Mac realized, and he wondered what on earth they had in mind now. When they got out of the elevator at his floor, the hallway was unexpectedly dark.

"Your hallway light is broken," Jo said, stating the obvious.

In green glow from the emergency exit, Mac fumbled to find the lock with his keys and unlocked his apartment door. "Ladies first," he said and stepped aside to let them enter.

Having just been there yesterday, Stella walked in boldly first and flicked the switch just inside his door a few times, as Mac and Jo entered right behind her.

"How about that? Your _own_ light is broken as well," she said with a laugh. "Mac, were you really planning on entertaining Jo and me in the _dark_?"

Alarm bells were already ringing shrilly in his head. "Stella, I don't think …" he managed to say.

Taking another step into his darkened hall, Stella turned back to look at him before walking right into the bright pink balloon suspended by a long string from the ceiling above.

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><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 8 – "A Change of Plans" <strong>The second balloon has unexpected consequences

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><p>I think a short disclaimer is in order here: the Mayor in need of a bottom-smacking is of course <em>entirely<em> fictitious, just like everyone else in this story.


	8. A Change of Plans

**Author's note: **Thank you once again for your very encouraging reviews of the previous chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 8 – "A Change of Plans"<strong>

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><p>By the time Don Flack finally got within two blocks of Mac's building, the slow-moving traffic gridlocked completely, and he realized he couldn't get any closer by car. True to the volatile nature of spring in New York City, there had been several dramatic cloudbursts over the city that evening. And on the NYPD emergency street closure updates, he had heard that the street up ahead had been barricaded for unspecified weather-related reasons. But unlike the frustrated drivers honking their horns on either side of him, Don also knew that the closure had not been caused by overflowing storm drains, but by something in Mac's apartment, five stories above street level.<p>

Squinting through his rain-streaked side window for somewhere to park, Don realized that it had finally stopped raining and switched off his window wipers. Ahead of him, two uniformed traffic enforcement officers were patiently directing all the cars down a narrow side street. Ignoring the angry shouts from his NYPD colleagues, Don turned the other way and double-parked in front of the mouth of an alley instead.

When he opened his car door, he saw that he had to clear a puddle the size of a garden pond. Setting off with both feet from the running board, he leaped over the puddle before edging around it to slam the car door shut. As he sprinted down the sidewalk, a drop of rain fell from a streetlamp above, hitting him inside his collar. Then the ice-cold drop trickled down through the small hairs on the back of his neck, literally chilling his spine.

Ahead of him, beyond the striped barrier fences and A-frame barricades, the whole block was ablaze with the iridescent lights of all of the parked emergency vehicles. From a distance, Don recognized the blue lightbars on the white NYPD squad cars, the yellow lights on the red Fire Department trucks, and the blinking orange beacons on the black Homeland Security SUVs. The waterlogged street mirrored the kaleidoscope of flashing lights above, creating the eerie illusion that the entire street was in fact lit up from below.

Don's experienced eyes scanned the scene, searching specifically for the flashing green light that identified the incident command post. Finally, saw he found it mounted on a large, black vehicle the size of a bus, from which people were swarming in and out like ants. According to CIMS protocol, this meant that DHS had single command of the incident. And, as Don had recently learned, this would be the case if this was a hazmat incident involving a class A pathogen.

By flashing his badge, Don easily cleared the outer NYPD perimeter, but at the next barricade, he was stopped by several men wearing dark-blue lanyards with Homeland Security IDs around the necks. Looking over their shoulders, he saw several idle ambulances parked within the staging area, awaiting further instructions. Apart from the occasional commands being shouted out, he also heard the crackling static of countless walkie-talkies, but Don could tell that most of the action was already over. Several emergency vehicles were hooting their sirens to clear their path as they prepared to leave the incident scene.

Looking around him, Don was relieved to finally spot Mac standing nearby, across the street from his own apartment. He was leaning against a parked car with his arms crossed, staring down at the ground between his feet. Looked bleary-eyed and surly, he had a gray emergency relief blanket draped around his shoulders. Director Pantone was talking agitatedly to him, one hand resting on the back of Mac's neck, the other gesticulating wildly at the crowded street and pointing up at Mac's apartment.

Don had never seen the two men together before, but from their body language, there was no doubt in his mind that they knew each other well. Listening to Pantone, Mac kept his eyes sullenly on the ground, which at one point made the DHS Director raise his chin to get his full attention. Throwing his hands out from under the blanket, Mac replied animatedly, and the older man nodded several times while polishing his glasses with his handkerchief. Finally, Pantone wrapped a paternal arm around Mac's shoulder as an encouraging hug, which Mac reciprocated without hesitation.

At that moment, Mac glanced over Pantone's shoulder and caught sight of Don standing behind the blockade, watching them. Pointing to Don, he said something to the DHS Director, who looked up and recognized the homicide detective. Immediately, Pantone barked an order to the nearest DHS agent, dispatching him over to the barricade to let Don pass through. Then he nodded briefly to acknowledge Don before leaving to walk towards the mobile command vehicle, a furious look now on his face.

"This is a _nightmare_!" Don heard Pantone yell at no one in particular. Yet his booming voice alone sent DHS agents scurrying away from him in every direction, their eyes nervously averted. Up ahead, the DHS incident commander and his logistics team were moving color-coded resource status cards around on a large t-card rack. When they saw the angry Director heading in their direction, Don saw them exchange uneasy glances.

"My God, Mac! Are you all right?" Don shouted out as he approached his friend. Looking around the crowded incident scene again, he quickly added, "Where are Jo and Stella?"

"They're fine," Mac replied and pointed further down the sidewalk. Jo and Stella were standing under the awning of a corner deli, talking to two female DHS agents.

Much to Don's relief, the two women certainly did look unharmed. In fact, Stella had her head tilted to one side, and one of the DHS agents was running her fingers admiringly through her hair, while Jo watched with a wide grin on her face. Wondering what the hell was going on, Don's eyebrows furrowed, and he turned back to Mac.

On closer inspection, Mac was in fact the one who looked the least happy. Don saw that his hair was spikey wet, his lips bluish, and he was shivering slightly. "You look really tired, Mac."

"Tired?" Mac repeated glumly. "I'm completely wiped out."

"What's with the blanket? Why are you soaking wet?"

Pulling his arm out from under the blanket, Mac pointed up at his empty apartment building across the street. "I helped evacuate my neighbors in the middle of a downpour."

"What, no one else could do that?" Looking around, Don guessed there were still sixty-seventy professionals present at the scene.

"Some of my neighbors are elderly," Mac explained. "They'd have had heart attacks if one of _those_ guys knocked on their door." He pointed to a large group of people in white hazmat suits and full-face respirators. They were standing beside a large white truck from the Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, which apparently served as a decontamination station.

"So what exactly happened here?" Don asked.

Mac sighed. "Stella walked right into a balloon that had been left for me inside my apartment," he explained. "But the balloon didn't actually burst until one of _those_ geniuses over there fumbled trying to contain it later on. Now my place is uninhabitable."

"I came as soon as I heard that Al Qaeda interrupted your little _ménage a trois,_" Don said with a grin.

"That was _never_ Al Qaeda!" Mac spat out angrily. "Who's ever heard of terrorists trying to kill people in their own homes? Attacking the same person _twice_? It defeats the whole purpose."

"Mac, you old dog!" Don blurted out with a laugh. "I kind of expected you to deny the _other_ part first."

Mac sighed again and rolled his eyes. "What will it take to convince you that this wasn't my idea? _They're _the ones who insisted on a nightcap." He pointed at Stella and Jo again, who had both spotted Don now and were waving happily to him.

"You're right," Don conceded. "You'd need a personality transplant first." He waved back to the women with a broad smile. "But I'll bet _they_ were planning to have their wicked way with _you_ tonight."

"To be honest," Mac replied, "I think they hardly noticed that I was with them all evening."

"They certainly seem to be getting on rather well," Don observed, his eyes still fixed on Stella and Jo.

"Maybe just a little _too_ well." Mac closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I definitely hadn't seen this coming."

"They're actually quite _alike_, come to think of it," Don remarked reflectively. "That's not that surprising, really, since _you_ hired them both. They're both quite … _nice_ looking, objectively speaking. You obviously know what … qualities … you're looking for in your assistant supervisors."

"You can wipe that smirk off your face," Mac snapped back. "You know that I hired both of them for their _professional_ qualifications."

Concerned, Don put his hand on Mac's arm. "Hey, you look seriously stressed out, there, Mac. You've been so unbelievably cool about all of this so far."

"This day is getting to be too much for me, Don," the head of the Crime Lab confessed candidly, rubbing his face with both hands. "I really don't think I can take any more."

Their conversation was interrupted by an outburst of throaty laughter from Jo and Stella. Don glanced back at them. "What's so funny over there?"

Mac rolled his eyes, his pale cheeks already blushing noticeably. "I'm homeless, now, in case you haven't noticed," he explained. "Homeland Security won't let me back into my apartment anytime before Judgment Day." Then he added reluctantly, "So right now, Jo and Stella are trying to decide who's going to take me home with them."

"And, what, you have _no say_ in this, at all?" Don looked back at the two smiling women and shook his head in deep admiration. "Un-be-lievable," he breathed. Slipping one arm behind his back, he bent down with an exaggerated flourish. "A mere mortal bows to the master."

His eyes darting around in embarrassment, Mac's cheeks colored even deeper. "Get up, you idiot!" he hissed, grabbing Don's arm to pull him upright again. "I'm assuming it's so I can get some _sleep_," he added, exasperated. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm planning to tag along with the DHS team and see if I can get access to their investigation. I'm still working on getting Henry to clear it for me."

Don shook his head firmly. "Mac, you look wrecked and you're completely drenched," he said seriously. "The ladies are right, you really need to get some rest. You're going to have to catch up on the case in the morning."

He turned around abruptly and began walking over towards the two women. "It's the _winner_ who gets to take you home, right?" he called over his shoulder to Mac.

Pointing back to where Mac was standing, Don put his arms around Stella and Jo's shoulders for a huddled conversation. Mac's eyes widened when the three of them solemnly raised their fists for a round of rock-paper-scissors, and then he quickly covered his face with both hands, unable to watch. Lowering his hands again, he saw Don flash his widest smile at him, as the three of them returned together, arms interlocked.

"I'll have you know it was a _tough_ negotiation," Don announced gravely, "but you'll be happy to know you're coming home with _me_. My apartment is nothing flashy, but I've got an extra mattress that I roll out for my VIP guests."

Then he put his hand next to his mouth and whispered into Mac's ear, "Just a little tip here, Mac, should you ever have plans for these ladies again. Always go for paper. Most people choose rock."

"Sheesh," Mac exhaled in disapproval at the homicide detective.

"Don, give him hot milk," Jo said sternly, putting her hand on Mac's shoulder. "It always does the trick with my kids. We don't want him catching another cold."

"And a hot shower, too. He likes those," Stella added with a wink, placing her hand on his other shoulder. "And then tuck him in snugly on behalf of the two of us."

"I promise, ladies," Don replied earnestly, before turning around to leave with the speechless head of the Crime Lab.

Together, they slipped through the barricades and walked along the sidewalk towards Don's car. At one point, Mac pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "I forgot to tell you that _they're_ coming with me. Henry insisted."

Turning around to find two burly DHS agents trailing right behind them, Don's mouth dropped open as his face fell. "You mean Tweedledee and Tweedledum here? Oh, you really are a _treat_, you know that, Mac?" He shook his head several times before lighting up again. "Okay, let's have a pajama party. Then you'll finally get the milk and cookies I know you're waiting for."

When they got back to the alley, Don waded through the puddle and reversed the car out onto the street before opening the door for Mac to get in. With the engine running, they pulled on their seatbelts and waited patiently for the two agents to catch up in their car. As he turned to rejoin the detoured traffic down the side street, Don waved amicably to his colleagues from Traffic, and was rewarded with some pretty unfriendly hand gestures.

"If Homeland Security is going to claim that this was another illegal toxic waste dump," Mac sighed, pointing back in the direction of his apartment building, "I swear I'll never be able to look any of my neighbors in the eyes again."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about them, Mac," Don replied and glanced up at the multicolored lights still flashing in his rearview mirror. "No one is going to want to live in the same building as you ever again. Talk about toxic real estate assets."

Shivering, Mac rubbed his shoulders with both hands before turning up the car's heating. Don watched him hold his wristwatch up to his ear to check if it was still ticking.

"You said Stella walked right into the balloon," Don said, as he drove down the narrow side street. "So how come it didn't burst?"

"That's because her curly hair cushioned the balloon like a torsion spring, would you believe?" Mac shuddered at the memory of those awful nanoseconds before he had yanked Stella and Jo back into the hallway. "Apparently, if we had come into my apartment in any other order, it would have burst. In fact, if Stella hadn't had her head turned to talk to me, we'd all be dead right now. This time, there was no helium in the balloon."

"Wow!" Whistling under his breath, Don marveled at their narrow escape. Coming into a busy avenue, he crossed several lanes of traffic in order to turn at the next intersection. "I wonder what conditioner Stella uses," he added as an afterthought.

Mac stared suspiciously at him. "You know, those were _Jo's_ first words, too," he replied slowly. "From her, I kind of expected it, but not from you, Don."

"What?" Don glanced over at his passenger defensively. "So I take care of my hair. Are you too much of a he-man for hair conditioner?"

"Apparently, I am," Mac said with a smile.

As he drove, Don looked over to scrutinize Mac's wet hair. "You know, I bet if you let your hair grow a little, it would come out curly. Am I right?"

Mac looked up in surprise before laughing out loud. "Your talents are obviously wasted as a cop."

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Don finally found a parking space. He pulled the handbrake, switched off the engine and pocketed his car keys. Looking over, he saw that his passenger had his eyes closed, and the blanket had slipped from his shoulders. Gasping involuntarily, Don felt beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead. No more tiptoeing around, he had promised himself, since it had nearly cost Mac his life. So this time, he just shouted at top of his voice, "Hey Mac! Wakey, wakey!"

With a gasp, Mac opened his eyes and clutched the dashboard with both hands. Scowling at Don, he put his little finger in his ear and wriggled it. "Sheesh!" he complained. "Didn't your parents ever teach you when to use your _indoor_ voice?" He glanced out of the window to see where they were parked, and then looked unenthusiastically back at Don.

Don grinned. "Just checking that you were still alive."

"It's going to be a long night," Mac sighed, "if you're going to keep on doing that."

Don released both seatbelts and opened his door. "C'mon, Mac, we don't have much time."

Slumped apathetically in his seat, Mac saw the Empire State Building straight ahead and knew they were parked on West 34th Street, nowhere near Don's apartment. Then he craned his neck to read the sign above the storefront again. Finally, he looked back at Don, still without comprehension. "When you said your apartment wasn't fancy, you actually meant that you live at … Kmart?"

"No," Don replied, glancing down at his watch, "but we've got twenty-five minutes to get you some new clothes."

"Hey, I _really_ don't want –" Mac started to protest, straightening up in his seat.

"You're soaking wet, and nothing I own will fit you. Hurry up, I promised I'd get you home quickly and into a shower." He paused before adding with a smirk, "I'll even let you borrow some of my _conditioner_, if you like."

Mac glanced apprehensively at him. "You're not going to make me worry about spending the night at your place, are you now?" he said, looking decidedly uneasy. "Because I've already got enough on my mind, as it is."

But now Don was already waiting impatiently for him outside, pointing down at his wristwatch. Mac reluctantly pushed his car door open and stepped onto sidewalk, leaving his blanket behind on his seat. When he got to the store entrance, he saw the DHS agents rushing over to join them.

Inside the store, there were only a handful of other late night shoppers roaming between aisles to keep the bored-looking, blue-shirted staff busy. The store manager was already hovering around the checkout to help the frontend cashiers balance their registers. A few sales clerks were retrieving wayward shopping carts, and the pharmacist was locking plastics lids across the display items in her counter.

Leading the way past sporting equipment, office supplies and health and beauty products, Don headed straight for the menswear department.

"We don't have time to get a cart," he said, glancing down at his watch. "So hold out your arms, Mac."

He started pulling down various items of clothing, five at a time, and piling them up on his friend's obediently outstretched arms. Still dazed, Mac leaned back wearily against the shelves to keep himself upright. Glancing up at the unreadable faces of the DHS agents, he wondered briefly if they really didn't think this was just a bit strange.

Stacking a shelf further down the aisle, a ginger-haired youth with 'replenishment associate' on his nametag looked nervously at the four men who had suddenly appeared. He wondered if the tired-looking, wet man somehow was dangerous, since he had three tall men watching him so closely. When he saw that two of his guardians were wearing translucent, curly earpieces, he concluded that they could only be FBI agents escorting a feral serial killer.

"The Glam Squad is about to make you look 10 years younger," Don suddenly announced, enjoying himself more than he ought to at Mac's expense. He flicked his wrist theatrically and lisped to Mac, "Before we start, should we invite the agents to guess your age?"

"Shit, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about." Mac slid a long sideways step along the shelves, away from the homicide detective. "But now you're really scaring me, Don."

"What about _this_?" Grinning broadly, Don spun around and held out a death metal T-shirt, adorned with a skull with bloodshot eyeballs and sporting antlers.

Mac winced. "Hey, don't put me back in _high school_, Don," he pleaded. "I'm going to be wearing this stuff to work tomorrow."

Don looked critically back at the T-shirt in his hands. "So we should save this for Sid, you think? Because I could actually see _him_ wearing this."

Mac turned his head and found himself staring up at the icon of a fleeing man on a green emergency exit sign. But it was just wishful thinking, he reminded himself, because he had no money and nowhere to run to. Looking back again, he suddenly realized that he was being furtively watched by a young Kmart employee. The gawky young man appeared to be restacking an already overflowing shelf of baseball caps.

When their eyes met, the youth with the ginger ponytail froze. "What?" Mac growled at him, causing the man to blanch and stumble as he backtracked a few steps. To Mac's astonishment, he then appeared to dive headlong onto the floor of the next aisle.

After debating footwear for a few minutes, Don turned around to discover Mac gone and the clothes piled up on the outstretched arms of one of the DHS agents. Reluctantly, Don realized he might have gone too far after all, pushing Mac like this. He knew he should have listened to his friend more, instead of getting carried away in to his eagerness to do him this favor.

"What, you just let him _leave_?" he scolded the agent holding the clothing.

The agent just shook his head and pointed across the store towards the Health and Beauty aisles. Don saw Mac come wandering back with three toothbrushes in his hand. The other agent was trailing just a few steps right behind him.

"Really, Mac, _three_?" Don asked, shaking his head skeptically.

By way of explanation, Mac pointed to the two agents and shrugged. "They've been following me all day. It's the least I could do."

"Good thinking, Mac."

When the four of them finally arrived at Don's apartment building, it was already after midnight. To their annoyance, the two DHS agents insisted on entering the apartment first to meticulously clear the place.

"So close and yet so far," Mac sighed, slumping against the wall in the hallway. "This is taking forever," he added impatiently after fifteen minutes. "How big _is_ your place?"

"Do they really believe that your balloon stalker predicted that _I_ would be your date for tonight?" Don asked dubiously, dropping the shopping bags on the floor.

Finally, the agents came back and gave them the all-clear to come inside. Don dumped all of the clothes out on his kitchen table by turning the bags upside down, and Mac grabbed a handful and headed straight for the shower. He reemerged half an hour later wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants with a surprisingly good fit. Now the color had finally returned to his face again.

"That sure was a long shower," Don commented dryly, watching the steam wafting from his open bathroom door. "Maybe I should've checked up on you."

"Don't _you_ start now," Mac replied, running a towel across his hair. "It took me that long to get warm again." He pulled a chair away from the little table and sat down wearily.

Disappearing into his little kitchenette, Don returned with two cans of beer in his hands. "Here, have a beer," he said, offering one of them to his friend. "Let's drink to you surviving another balloon."

"Can't. Give it to the Tweedles over there," Mac replied, pointing to the two Homeland Security agents watching them intently from the sofa. But the two men just shook their heads in unison.

"I think I just wasted six bucks on toothbrushes for those guys," Don said with frown.

Without thinking about it, Mac got up to open Don's fridge and poured himself a tall glass of milk instead. He was just about to take a sip, when Don snatched the glass out of his hand and put it in microwave for half a minute.

"I promised Jo," Don explained apologetically. As compensation, he reached up into cupboard and threw a bag of cookies on the table. "And I've remembered my promise to _you_, too."

Too tired to protest, Mac found the glass of hot milk he now held between his hands very agreeable. Don sat down across from Mac and slung his long legs over the corner of the table. Watching his friend's face carefully, he could tell that there was something on the older man's mind. He pulled out a handful of cookies from the bag and waited patiently for Mac to speak again.

Mac shook his head slowly, trying to comprehend what all had happened to him since the first balloon. "Don, it really feels like my life is spiraling out of control," he finally said.

"After the _first_ balloon," he added after a long pause, "I lost my badge, my gun, my wallet, my phone and my watch. But much more importantly, Lindsay or Jo could easily have picked up that balloon, even if it was actually intended for me."

Taking a thoughtful sip of his beer, Don nodded in agreement.

"After the _second_ balloon," Mac continued, "I've now lost my home. And probably my neighbors, too." He shuddered involuntarily before adding, "And I really can't bear to think how close Stella and Jo came to being killed today, all because of me."

"Now, if there's a _third_ balloon out there somewhere …" Looking up at Don, he left the sentence hanging ominously.

"… you could lose your _life_, Mac," Don quietly finished it for him.

"Yes that's true, but I'm also worried that people I care about will get hurt. I really don't know if I want any of you near me, in case I come across another balloon."

Don pulled his legs down from the table and sat up straight. "Mac, you're surrounded by people who care about you, as you always should be," he replied seriously. "Please don't try to deal with these balloons by shutting us out of your life. Don't give this guy that satisfaction. Both times, we were there to save your life, right?"

"Yes, I guess you're right." Mac nodded before sighing again. "Still, I find myself worrying that I'm starting to lose it."

"Oh, I'm sure it can't be that bad," Don reassured him, helping himself to another handful of cookies. "I mean, what could you possibly have done that is so terrible?"

"Well, for one thing, I overslept this morning."

In spite of himself, Don laughed out loud. "You _overslept_? _That's_ how you're losing it? Mac, you're only human. It wouldn't _kill_ you to oversleep once in a while."

"Actually, it _would_," Mac replied sourly. He explained about the antibiotics he needed to keep the spores in his lungs from becoming toxic. "So I really hope you have an alarm clock."

The color drained from Dons face as he listened to the terrible revelation. "That's just awful. I'm really sorry to hear that you have to live with that," he said. He could tell that Mac needed to unburden something else on his mind. "So, what else is troubling you?" he coaxed him gently.

Mac sighed again. "A friend asked me to do him a favor today, and I turned him down. In fact, I ended up yelling at him instead. I feel just _terrible_ about that."

Don almost hesitated to ask. "So is it going to _kill_ you to do him this favor, as well?"

"No, but it'll probably send me to prison for the rest of my life," Mac answered grimly.

Don shook his head. "Sheesh, when it rains in your life, it really pours, doesn't it?" He leaned over and patted Mac on his arm. "It's not easy being you these days, is it?"

"I just need to know that what I do still makes a difference."

"Oh, but you're doing a great job, Mac!" Don put his hand on his shoulder. "And you make a lot of difference to a lot of people. I don't know how often you're told that, but even _you_ need to hear that sometimes. I think everyone just assumes you already know it."

"Thanks, Don," Mac said quietly, draining his glass of the rest of his milk. "Just once in a while, I need to hear someone actually _say_ it."

Don finished the cookies and got up from his chair. "Let's get you off to bed. I'm going to have to put you on my bedroom floor. There's no way you can sleep out here with those two guys watching you."

Don rolled out the mattress, spread out a sheet and threw a blanket down at the foot end. "I guess you're going to have to do without that famous couch of yours."

"What _are_ you talking about?" Mac stared at him. "Since when is my couch famous?"

As Mac sat down on his bedding, Don handed down a pillow from his own bed. Mac put it under his head and lay down with a groan. Climbing up onto his own bed, Don lay down and switched off the light.

"This reminds me of when my older brother and I used to stay at our grandparents' house," he said wistfully. "He always got the mattress on the floor, while I got the guest bed."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" came the reply from the floor. After a minute, Mac added, "I didn't actually realize you had a brother. You haven't mentioned him before."

"We used to be very close, but he lives up in Albany now. He studied accounting at college and became an IRS agent, would you believe it."

"You're _kidding_ me!"

"Yeah, my dad wanted both of us to follow in his footsteps, but I was the only one who actually became a cop."

"What about your sister?" Mac asked curiously. "You're still close to her, I know."

"For some reason, my dad never had any expectations of her. Maybe it was because she was a girl." Don sighed. "When she started messing about to get his attention, he just washed his hands of her. I used to give him a hard time about it, until I started to think he was right. But when she became an alcoholic, I finally realized it wasn't really her fault."

"Well, I feel for your sister, Don," Mac replied. "I was always getting into trouble trying to get my father's attention. I even broke my leg once, trying to do something stupid on a bicycle. It took me years to realize that as his only child, I already had all of his attention."

Don was quiet for a moment. "Mac, you really remind me of my older brother. He always stuck up for Samantha."

"Great. Now I remind you of an IRS agent."

"Hey, that's _not_ what I said," Don protested. "I said you remind me of my _brother_. It's not the same thing."

Mac thought about it. "You're right, I'm sorry."

He rolled over on his side and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. He really needed to get to sleep if he was going to be ready for whatever the next day had in store. Recalling the soothing double bass he had heard at the restaurant, he finally felt himself begin to let go of the day and drift off to sleep.

"Mac, are you asleep?"

"Not any more," Mac replied.

"Sorry."

"You know, if I had a younger brother, I'd bet he'd be really annoying, just like you."

Don rolled over to look down at Mac in the darkness. "There's something I really have to tell you."

Mac stared up in his direction and sighed. "We've been over this before, Don. I already told you it was between you and your God."

"But how did you _know_ …?" Don asked incredulously.

"I can always tell on your voice whenever you're about to bring it up."

"But I _have_ to tell you, Mac," Don pleaded. "It's eating me up inside. I've got to actually _say_ it to you."

Mac pulled the corners of his pillow up over his ears. "I'm not hearing this."

"I'm finding it hard to live with the fact that I crossed the line. I really need you to forgive me."

"I told you before, I'm not your _priest_." Mac replied sternly. "Taking a life is _wrong_, Don. You know that, as well as I do. Look, _I'm_ not the one who needs to forgive you."

Don thought about it for a while, trying to work out what Mac could mean. "Are you saying that I should forgive _myself_, then?"

"Yes, of course you should forgive yourself," Mac replied reassuringly. "At the time, all I asked of you was that I could still count on you. And you've proven to me so many times that I could. You've even saved my life. So, now I think it's about time you just let it go and moved on."

"_Thank_ you, Mac," Don sighed. "I _really_ needed to hear that."

He lay for a while, amazed at how much a few words could mean when spoken by a true friend. He had waited all this time for Mac to say something he knew in his heart that Mac would never say – and still hadn't said. Yet somehow Mac had still managed to lift a heavy burden from his mind. Instead of sending him off to sleep, though, the sense of relief refreshed Don, and now he felt more awake than ever. He listened to the steady breathing of the man lying on the floor beside his bed.

"Mac, are you asleep?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"What's up, Don?" Mac asked drowsily.

"Did you sleep with Stella?"

"Mmm."

Don thought about this reply for a minute. "Was that a _yes?"_

"_Yes_, that was a yes," Mac sighed wearily.

"And …?"

"Mind your own business." He rolled over onto his stomach. "We're not going to need an alarm clock after all, are we? You seem to be set to go off at one-minute intervals."

"Was that actually why Stella left New York?"

"No flies on you, Don. It only took you _two years_ to work that one out."

"So, is there anything going on between the two of you now?"

"Nope. Stella's a good friend, just like you are. _Better_ in fact, I'd say, right now."

"Well, in _that_ case, I think it's about time you and Jo -"

"_Goodnight_, Don," Mac interrupted.

"Goodnight, Mac."

* * *

><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 9 – "The Pirates' Cove"<strong> Mac and his team discover the identity of the jogger


	9. The Pirates' Cove

**Author's note: **How nice to be receiving such kind reviews from everyone - thank you so much for your encouragement!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9 – "The Pirates' Cove"<strong>

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><p>The next morning, Mac Taylor tried to ignore the two DHS agents accompanying him in the elevator up to the Crime Lab. Waking up early to find himself lying on Don's bedroom floor, he had wandered bleary-eyed into the kitchenette, only to be met by their unwavering stare. When Don had emerged minutes later, still rubbing his face sleepily, Mac had already poured the agents two glasses of milk and was washing down his antibiotics with a third.<p>

While his guests showered, Don had brewed a large pot of coffee, microwaved bacon rashers and scrambled a dozen eggs for everyone. At first, he had enjoyed his high-carb breakfast piled up on toast with a generous splash of ketchup. But then a dispatch call had come about a body in a restaurant trash compactor, and he pushed his plate away in disgust. To placate his friend's darkened mood, Mac had promised to send a couple of CSIs to the scene as soon as he got back to the Lab.

Walking down the hallway towards his office, Mac wasn't oblivious to the many furtive glances from his staff. So far, there was no official, DHS-sanctioned version of what had happened at his apartment last night. Yet he was certain that a handful of unofficial stories were already circulating, mainly because he had left the Crime Lab arm in arm with both Stella and Jo.

"Hey, Mac, good to see you!" Danny shouted cheerfully, emerging from the AV lab together with Adam. He stopped when he saw the two hard-faced DHS agents watching him over Mac's shoulders. "We heard about the … water damage … to your apartment," he added hesitantly. "I'm glad everyone is … safe."

They stood in silence while Mac tried to work out a plausible response within earshot of everyone else in the hallway.

"Yeah, that sure was … a lot of water," he muttered, uninspired. "I've really got to remember to … close my windows." With a sigh, he turned to the two agents and threw out his hands, impatient for a better cover story from Homeland Security.

"So, where did you end up spending the night, then?" Danny asked, a little too casually.

Mac looked back at him sharply. "Why are _you_ so interested?"

"No reason." The CSI looked down at his feet.

"Danny," Mac growled. One look at Adam's troubled face confirmed that something was up.

"Sheesh, Mac, I was just _asking_."

"_Danny!_" he repeated impatiently.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Danny mumbled and took a deep breath. "Adam and I set up an office pool, and now there's a small _fortune_ at stake. The odds are even on Jo and Stella putting you up. Just so you know, Adam's money is on Jo, but I say Stella."

Glowering at each of them in turn, Mac's felt a vein throb at his temple. During his years at the Crime Lab, no one had ever had the temerity to confront him with a question like this. Unsurprisingly, it had come from the cocky young CSI he had hired against everyone's advice and his own better judgment, at least at the time. His arms akimbo, he looked down at his clothes and realized that wearing khakis, sneakers and a black sweatshirt didn't exactly bolster his authority today.

"Actually, if you must know," he sighed and pointed over his shoulder at the agents, "I spent last night in the company of three other men."

Glancing down at a sheet of paper in his hand, Danny's face fell. "Damn, I don't believe it! The odds against that were – like – _astronomical_!"

"_Hey_, give me that list!" Mac grabbed Danny's shoulder, trying to snatch the paper from him. "I want to know who bet on _that_!"

Danny crumpled up the paper in his outstretched hand and held it up to his mouth. "C'mon, you're not actually going to make me _eat_ this, are you?" he said, praying that his boss wouldn't call his bluff.

Since his own Marine Corps training trumped Danny's Police Academy instruction, Mac could easily have wrestled the younger man to the ground. But the Corps had also taught him to keep his temper in check, and he let go of Danny's arm instead. Wary of the two agents standing right behind him, he wondered what colorful stories they would be relating back to Pantone at the end of their shift.

"Someone here at the Lab had _better_ watch his or her back!" he snapped, startling a couple of passing technicians. Then he ordered Danny to go and process Don's restaurant crime scene. With a glance at his sheepish accomplice, he added, "And take Adam with you. I obviously need both of you out of the lab today."

Sitting at her desk, Jo raised a curious eyebrow when she heard Mac shout, "Pack your _spatulas_," as he stormed past her office.

"Is that you horsing around out there, Mac?" she called out.

When he reappeared in her doorway, she immediately noticed his change in attire.

"Hey, you somehow look different today." She smiled, pleased to see his frown soften in her presence. "Wait, it's your _hair_, isn't it? You got a haircut, right?"

"_This," _he replied, pointing down at his sweatshirt, "was not my idea, Jo."

"I've always thought that casual looks much better on you," she said sincerely. "In fact, it makes you look quite _handsome_."

Sighing, he pointed over his shoulder. "Jo, please, not in front of the _babysitters_." Then he headed down the hallway again, the two agents trailing a few steps behind him.

Jo got up from her desk and followed the three of them to his office. "So, how are you today?" she asked him.

"I'm good," he replied, "but last night was too close a call for my liking." He turned around to look at her with concern. "What about you, Jo? Are you all right?"

"Yes." She shuddered as she recalled their close encounter with the balloon. "I went home, wrapped my arms around Ellie, and hugged her for an _hour_ before going to bed." She sighed and shook her head. "She fell asleep in my arms, poor thing. It cost me strawberry pancakes for breakfast this morning."

He smiled wistfully at her. "I'm all envious."

Jo briefly wondered if he meant the breakfast, the bed or the hour-long hug. "What are you going to do now? There's no longer any doubt that this guy is targeting _you_."

"I'm going to lock and load, that's all I can do," he sighed and sat down on the chair behind his desk. "I've got to find this lunatic before he strikes again." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I get this awful feeling there's a third balloon out there somewhere."

"Don't worry, Mac, we'll find this guys before he gets to you again. I'm convinced we're already so _close_," she said, thinking of the license plate that Adam had identified. "It's just a matter of time now."

"_Close_ only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," Mac reminded her.

"So what about Homeland Security?" Jo asked. She glanced over at the two stony-faced agents, now seated on his sofa. "Have they been any help?"

"To be honest," he answered, shaking his head, "DHS doesn't seem to have a clue about who's behind this. Henry hit the roof when I called him last night. He definitely hadn't seen this coming. But at least he had the presence of mind not to send Williams to the scene."

"When will you get your apartment back?"

"It'll be a while," he sighed. "But Henry promised that his cleanup crew will try to decontaminate more and incinerate less, this time around."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Well, you look like you slept well, at least. I guess Don is taking good care of you."

"Yes, Don's been great." He glanced up at her and smiled. "He _really_ needs a girlfriend, though," he sighed under his breath.

"Well, if he had a girlfriend," Jo laughed, "you wouldn't be able to bunk over. Just so you know, my offer's still open. You could even have a room of your own. It'd be fun."

"Thanks," he said, shaking his head, "but those guys over there really … cramp my style."

"Oh, I think we can work a way around your _chaperones_," she mused. "I used to be quite an expert at high school dances."

"Now, why am I not surprised?" He grinned briefly, before looking serious again. "But they're there for a reason, Jo. With these damned balloons, anyone around me could be in danger as well. I couldn't possibly risk involving Ellie in all of this."

Jo nodded, since this unfortunately made a lot of sense. "You still have no idea why anyone would try to kill you in such a bizarre way?"

With a deep sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "Believe me, I've been racking my brains, but I still have absolutely _no_ clue. That's what's so strange. It's not like I haven't put plenty of lowlifes behind bars over the years," he added, "but none of them could possibly have access to weaponized anthrax. Like Adam said, there is something else going on here."

"Speak of the devil," Jo interrupted him.

Adam had suddenly reappeared in the doorway of Mac's office.

"Back so soon?" Mac asked him, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

Doubling over, Adam took time to catch his breath before replying. "I've got an urgent message for you from Flack," he panted.

Mac realized that this had to be news about the license plate. "So what is it, Adam?"

"He says he's sorry he ate all of the cookies last night, and he'll make it up to you later."

While Jo tried to work out the secret significance of Adam's words, Mac drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk.

"Surely, that wasn't the _whole _message?" he asked.

"No," Adam replied, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to figure out how to phrase the rest of it." He looked anxiously at the two seated DHS agents and back at Mac and Jo behind the desk.

"This is about Captain Hook, right?" Jo suggested helpfully.

Adam's face lit up with relief. "Yes, yes," he sighed, "it is!"

The two agents straightened up in their seats, their brows furrowed.

Pointing to Adam, Jo addressed them with a friendly smile. "He's just rehearsing his lines for the birthday party of our colleagues' daughter," she explained. "She'll be five next month."

"Go ahead, Adam," she coaxed him gently. "You'll be fine."

Now all eyes were on the young technician, whom Mac wrongly suspected of wanting to bolt through the open door.

Taking a deep breath, Adam suddenly bellowed, "Step lively, matey!" at the top of his voice, alarming everyone in the room. Then he put one hand on his chest and waved his other arm theatrically at his boss. "That scallywag Flack has found the pirates' cove. So weigh anchor and hoist yer mizzen!"

For one terrible moment, Jo saw the open-mouthed agents reach for the guns inside their coats. Exchanging puzzled glances, they relaxed and slowly brought out their empty hands again. Mac was amazed to see his young employee enjoying himself like this, unaffected by his audience's reaction.

"Okay, well done, Adam!" Jo chuckled, before looking down at the head of the Crime Lab. "Go ahead, Mac. Now it's _your_ turn."

In a split second, Mac's smile was replaced by a deep frown. "Hey," he warned her, "I already _told_ you I don't speak Neverland."

"You're Lucy's godfather," she sighed. "She'll be _so_ disappointed if you forget your lines."

Leaned back in his chair, he crossed his arms defiantly. "I seem to be surrounded by people with too much imagination," he grumbled at her.

"What can I say?" she explained with a laugh. "My kids keep me young."

Reluctantly, Mac's eyes wandered around to the four expectant faces waiting for him to speak his lines.

"Come over here, Adam," he finally said, pulling a sheet of paper out of a drawer and holding out a pen. "Draw me a map of the pirates' cove."

On the paper, Adam drew an oblong, drop-shaped treasure island that bore an uncanny resemblance to Manhattan. About two-thirds of the way down the western shore, he drew a long, vertical line with a small, east-facing curve at the top. Then he added a large 'X' halfway up the line.

"Flack be walking this plank with you, captain," he explained to his boss.

"All right." Mac studied the map and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's a very long plank, though."

"Avast ye," Jo warned him, looking over his shoulder. "If you and Don are jumping into shark-infested waters, I'm coming with you."

"Jo, I really can't let you do that," Mac said, shaking his head. "I already told you it's too dangerous to be around me."

"You just try to stop me, Mac," Jo defied him. "You're going to need all the help you can get," she added firmly.

They paused to glance over at the two men on the sofa, who looked mildly impressed by their acting skills. Picking up the pen, Jo drew an arrow pointing at the agents and added a question mark. Mac shook his head reassuringly and wrote "SID" on the paper. Then he wrote "CAR KEYS?"

Jo nodded and patted her pocket, still without comprehension. She tried in vain to picture the mild-mannered Medical Examiner restraining the two burly agents, while she and Mac slipped out of the door. Yet, to her surprise, Mac had already picked up his phone and was dialing Sid's number.

"Do you have time to demonstrate the Quincy principle for me?" he asked cryptically.

"For you, anytime," Sid replied with a laugh. "Just give me five minutes to set up. You're going to _love_ this one."

"See you in five," Mac replied and looked up at Jo. "If you're really serious, you're going to have to come with me to the M.E.'s office first. Sid has something he wants to show us."

The five of them filed out of Mac's office together and headed towards the elevators. Curious about this unfamiliar principle, Adam was ready to follow them when they got off at the M.E.'s floor. But Mac put his hand out and gently pushed him back into the open elevator.

"_You're_ going back to that restaurant, young man," he reminded him sternly. "Don't forget, it's _educational_," he added with a smile, as the doors closed on the disappointed technician.

When they walked into the autopsy room, Sid greeted them enthusiastically. "It's so _great_ that you finally found the time, Mac," he exclaimed and shook hands with the two unsmiling agents. "And I see you've brought company, too. Wonderful!"

"I've got a _splendid_ demonstration set up for you," he added and put his hands on the rim of the stainless steel autopsy table. Under a sheet, a dead body already lay supine with only the head uncovered. "As you already know, the brain is best observed _in situ_."

As they watched, he picked up a scalpel and made an incision from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to a point behind the other ear. Then he pulled away the scalp from the skull in two flaps, with the front flap going over the face, and the rear flap going over the back of the neck. When he was done, he looked at the impassive faces of the DHS agents before glancing over at Mac, who nodded for him to continue.

"Before we begin, you're going to want to put these on." Sid handed each of them a face shield. "There's going to be a lot of spatter. It's really quite a messy procedure."

Following their lead, the two DHS agents silently put on the proffered face shields.

Now Sid held up an oscillating Stryker saw. "These electric saws throw off much more pathogenic debris than good, old-fashioned handsaws," he explained. "Not many people actually know that." He powered up the precision tool, filling the room with a high-pitched, eye-watering whine.

Switching the saw off again, he turned to address the two agents specifically. "You're going to want to wash your hair repeatedly after this," he warned them before turning it on again. "I can recommend a special industrial-strength shampoo that _almost_ does the trick," he shouted. "The smell of brain tissue just has a way of lingering for _days_."

In her two years at the Crime Lab, Jo had never heard such nonsense come from the mouth of the experienced pathologist. Unable to contain herself, she was about to protest, when Mac swiftly put a restraining hand on her arm.

"After doing this for 29 years, I'd actually say the _bone_ _dust_ is the worst," Sid reflected with a heavy sigh, turning the electric saw off again. "It just gets into your teeth in the worst way." Then he added apologetically, "From now on, even an ice cream sundae is going to taste _gritty_ to you."

As Sid activated the Stryker saw again, Jo watched the agents exchange worried glances.

"I say," he shouted joyfully above the ear-splitting, dental-drill whirr, "it's really pretty _brave_ of you fellows to stick around for this! I can't even get _medical_ _students_ to watch."

After a quick look at his partner, one of the agents yanked off his face shield and pointed to the door. "I don't think it's strictly necessary that we stay," he yelled to be heard. "We'll be right outside."

When the two agents had disappeared from the room, Jo stared open-mouthed at the grinning Medical Examiner. "Oh my God, Sid! You've done this sort of thing _before_?"

"Sid's actually been doing this for years," Mac explained while he gave the pathologist an approving thumbs-up. Pulling at Jo's elbow, he quickly steered her towards the morgue's other exit. "He changes it every time to keep me entertained."

When they reached her car down in the underground parking garage, Jo was still speechless with wonder. Dazed, she pulled the car keys from her pocket and unlocked the doors.

"I just can't … _believe_ … what Sid just did back there!" She got into the car, shaking her head. With a laugh, she put her finger in her ear and wriggled it. "And switching that damned saw on and off like that? Pure genius! It sounded just like it was inside _my_ head."

Getting into the car next to her, Mac looked worried. "Are you going to be warm enough without your coat?"

"I didn't realize the Crime Lab had such talented actors until today," Jo exclaimed, while she accelerated up the parking ramp towards the street. "Now we'll _definitely_ have to put on a pirate play for Lucy's birthday party."

"Sheesh!" Mac rolled his eyes with disapproval. "Here I was hoping you were just _joking, _Jo."

"I'm so amazed that you and Sid have this _routine_ going on." She glanced at him in admiration before joining the busy flow of midtown traffic.

"Like I said before," he replied, "I'm surrounded by people with too much imagination."

After a driving for a few minutes, Jo smiled at him and added, "Actually, I've heard you're pretty imaginative yourself, Mac."

"Oh, really?" He looked over at her in surprise. "Who on earth told you that?"

"Stella."

She chuckled when she saw his cheeks color visibly. He gave her a quick, sidelong glance before looking out of the passenger window, smiling to himself.

Jo parked in a narrow West Village side street, and they walked the last two blocks to their destination. Since it was already close to lunchtime, they bought grilled cheese sandwiches and bottled water at a mobile food truck on their way. Jo watched as Mac pulled the plastic vials from his pocket and dutifully swallowed his pills.

Then they climbed the flight of steps up to the High Line, the elevated park promenade that once had brought freight trains down to the Meatpacking Districts. Suddenly, they found themselves strolling on concrete planks through a woodland thicket of birch trees, 30 feet above the traffic-clogged streets below.

Eating their sandwiches wrapped in paper napkins, Jo and Mac sidestepped the widest puddles, lingering mementos of last night's downpour. Above their heads, the sky was now a crisp blue, and a light breeze was blowing sleek sailboats across the Hudson. Apart from the muted sound of taxi horns three stories below, it was hard to believe they were walking through the middle of Manhattan.

For a while, they just savored the unexpected peacefulness, until Jo finally exclaimed, "Mac, this is just amazing!" Her eyes lit up as she pointed to the myriad of shrubs and saplings around them. "_Look_, the sassafras, crabapples, huckleberries, pussy willows and redbuds are all in bloom. Finally, spring has come to New York!"

"Yes, it _is_ rather impressive," he replied with an appreciative laugh, thinking of the horticultural knowledge of his Assistant Supervisor.

As they passed a knee-high meadow of grasses and tiny wildflowers, Jo caught him still looking sidelong at her in admiration. "In another life, I would have been a gardener," she explained self-consciously.

"Really?" He glanced doubtfully at the gardeners on their knees in the wet topsoil, trimming the plants for the annual spring cutback. "All I see here is a mile and a half of weeding."

"Gardening isn't just about _weeding_, Mac," she sighed. "It's about nurturing tiny little lives and watching over them as they grow to their full potential."

On the path ahead of them, an old man was feeding a flock of sparrows as if they were pigeons.

"This reminds me of the conversation you and Stella had over dinner last night," Mac replied. "To me, _that_ sounded like a mile and a half of diapers."

"Stella's just going to make a _great_ mom," Jo exclaimed, and he nodded in agreement. "That's going to be one incredibly lucky kid down there in New Orleans."

They passed a young mother talking on her cell phone, while she pushed a stroller with two sleeping toddlers back and forth.

"And whenever I see you with Lucy," Jo continued, "I always think _you'd_ make a great father, Mac."

Having heard this observation often enough before, he just shook his head with a smile. "I think it's a little late in the day for that."

Now Jo was approached by a group of laughing Asian tourists, who asked her to take a group photo of them. Mac and several weatherproofed locals sitting on sun loungers watched while she tried to get everyone squeezed into the picture.

As they continued their northbound walk, the waterfront buildings on their left afforded occasional slot-like vistas of the Chelsea Piers and the New Jersey skyline. On their right, the sprawling parking lots, taxi garages and gas stations gradually gave way to narrow streets of warehouses, factory buildings and four-story tenements. Along Tenth Avenue down below them, there already appeared the first chic Chelsea art galleries, boutiques and high-end restaurants.

Without warning, two unapologetic joggers elbowed past them, sprinting to an imaginary finish line up ahead. Mac and Jo looked at each other uneasily.

"I don't know why I let you talk me into coming with me," he said, shaking his head. "I really don't want anyone close to me getting hurt."

"Hey, we don't want _you_ getting hurt, either," Jo answered earnestly and stopped walking. "I'm glad you at least count me as someone close to you."

Mac stopped and turned to face her. "Of course, you're close to me, Jo," he said without hesitation. "In fact, you're the _closest_ there is," he added. "I was hoping you already knew that."

Reaching over to take her hand, he squeezed it gently and smiled. Then he took another step to continue walking, but Jo held firmly onto his hand, pulling him right around to face her again.

"If I'm so close to you," she asked him, "then why are you so far away from me?"

"What are you talking about?" he replied, looking confused. "I'm standing right here, aren't I?"

"You _know_ what I mean," she said sternly, but still smiling. "You're always giving me the runaround, Mac. You just told me at the Lab that _close_ doesn't count. Well, I agree with you, if _this_ is close, then it's not enough."

He looked at her and sighed. "Right now, I'm more of a hand grenade to you than a horseshoe," he reminded her gently. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

"You _just_ don't get it, do you?" she replied, shaking her head miserably. "You'll _always_ be a horseshoe to me, Mac." Biting her lip, she looked away from him. "Well, as my mama used to say, you can lead a horse to water …"

Feeling his hand on her shoulder, she turned her head back to see his eyes trying to catch hers. He was about to speak when a gust of wind suddenly whipped her raven hair into their faces and across his mouth. With her fingers, she helped him extract the strands from the corners of his lips.

"_Hey_, there," he said and smiled reassuringly. "Who says this old horse isn't up for a drink? It's just that your timing is _terrible_, Jo."

"I already know _that_, but I don't care," she replied, her hand still on his face. "I guess, all I'm trying to say is that …" She sighed. "… you might just want to live a little, Mac."

Mac nodded thoughtfully, recalling having given Stella the exact same advice two days earlier. When he had reluctantly bared his soul to her, she had told him it was high time he let someone into his life again. Despite her two-year absence from his life, Stella still knew him better than anyone else in the world. Maybe it _was_ time for him to give his head a rest and let his heart take the plunge.

"You're right," he said simply, making Jo's heart skip a beat. Looking down, he saw how her lips were bluish and she was wringing her hands to keep warm. He realized that her woolen shawl-collar cardigan was inadequate against the blustery wind.

"Come here." He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and cradled the back of her head with his hands. "If I were properly dressed myself, I could have offered you my jacket."

Feeling the muscles of his upper arms flex against her body, Jo was thankful they hadn't brought their coats. Nestled snugly inside his embrace, she burrowed her face into his shoulder. Now his fingers were playing with her hair, caressing the nape of her neck lightly, which sent tiny shivers tingling down her spine.

"Mm, this is so much better," she mumbled into the crook of his neck. Silly thoughts tumbled into her mind, like what his lips would taste like – and what her hands would do to him – if they actually kissed right now.

Watching them from farther up ahead, Don smiled approvingly when Mac put his arms around Jo to pull her closer. As luck would have it, however, the two CSIs caught sight of him in the middle of their unplanned interlude. They looked down at the ground and each other, before Mac finally raised his hand to acknowledge his presence. With a grin, Don waved back and waited patiently for them to disentangle themselves and approach him.

Uncomfortably aware of her flushed cheeks, Jo discovered that she was unable to meet Don's eyes just yet. Mac's steadfast gaze, on the other hand, warned him against saying anything at all. So Don just shook his head with a lopsided smile.

"It's good of you to meet us here," Mac said.

"Anything to get away from that damned _restaurant_." Don pulled a sour face. "Danny and Adam are still trying to work out how many bodies were inside that thing."

"I really hope you're armed," Mac continued. "We left in quite a hurry, as you can see." He indicated their light clothing, a contrast to Don's overcoat and scarf.

"At least you managed to get rid of the Tweedles," Don remarked, duly impressed. "You got Sid to do all the hard work for you again, didn't you?"

He walked over to the edge of the High Line and signaled for Mac and Jo to follow him. Standing with their elbows on the steel railings, the three of them gazed down the length of a street crossing Tenth Avenue right underneath them.

"So what exactly are we looking at here?" Mac asked, as Don handed him a small pair of binoculars.

The street itself was unremarkable for the diverse neighborhood situated between the townhouses of Chelsea, the warehouses of Hell's Kitchen, and the fashion factories of the Garment District. On the left, a chain-linked fence enclosed a parking lot for garbage trucks and other Sanitation vehicles. On the right, Mac saw the red-tiled roof and stained-glass windows of the Church of the Guardian Angel. Looking farther down the street, he noted several warehouses, a row of two-story tenements, an art gallery and a busy self-storage facility.

"The van with Adam's license plate was last seen entering Central Park in the early hours of Sunday morning," Don explained, "which puts it spot on the money. Between the cemetery and Central Park, though, the van was recorded by_ this_ traffic cam –" he pointed at a camera attached to the steel girders directly below them "- parked right in front of _that_ warehouse down there."

Through the binoculars, Mac studied the redbrick building with six sawtooth loading docks, about two hundred yards down the left side of the street. A plain white box truck was backed up against one of the docks, facing the High Line. Disregarding the passing pedestrians on the sidewalk, he couldn't see anyone inside the truck's cabin or around any of the rolling steel doors in the recessed bays.

"Now get this," Don continued triumphantly, having saved the best for last, "on the traffic cam footage the driver is seen wearing a gray sweatsuit and a dark scarf. Unfortunately, the image is too grainy to actually make out the face."

"Oh my God, that's the _jogger_!" Jo exclaimed. "What did I tell you, Mac? It was just a matter of time."

"Do you know anything about what's inside the warehouse?" Mac asked, passing the binoculars on to Jo.

"No, that's what's so weird," Don answered. "According to the Department of City Planning, the warehouse had been derelict since the mid nineties. But I've dug up a much more recent zoning docket permitting those off-street loading berths. It just doesn't add up."

"There's no way that building has been abandoned for the last fifteen years," Jo agreed. "There are patches of graffiti up and down the street, but not on the warehouse façade. And that truck appears to be either loading or unloading there, right now."

"The truck is refrigerated," Mac added, "and those are compression dock seals on the bays. That probably means the warehouse stores goods under temperature-controlled conditions."

"What could _that_ possibly be?" Don asked, his eyebrows raised. "What's the big secret?"

"We definitely need to get a closer look," Mac answered resolutely.

They descended a spiral flight of steel steps wedged between the High Line and the Catholic church. On his way down, Mac spotted a stone statue of an angel staring sightlessly at him from the church courtyard. His hand instinctively reached up under the neckline of his sweatshirt, and he realized for the first time that he had lost something else during his stay at Trinity General. Not a superstitious man, he tried to shake the feeling that this was a bad omen, but it felt just as inauspicious to him as being unarmed. Glancing over at him, Jo saw anxiety flit briefly across his face like a shadow.

Leading the way, Don ducked into a contemporary art gallery, 50 yards diagonally across the street from the warehouse.

Housed in a former mattress factory, the spacious gallery had exposed brick walls that were painted a stark white, while the concrete floors were a deep crimson hue. Along the walls were display cases with odd-looking glass, ceramic and plastic sculptures, while larger artworks stood out on the floor or were suspended from the ceiling above.

"C'mon, who seriously _buys_ this stuff?" Don pointed up at a plastic piñata stuffed with candy cigarettes, hanging over their heads.

For observing the warehouse, they found a suitable vantage point behind a large paint-spattered canvas in the front window of the gallery. Fortunately for them, the afternoon sun cast a long shadow across the gallery window. Over the next two hours, they took turns watching the building diagonally across the street.

Taking the first, uneventful one-hour shift, Don stared unblinking through the binoculars until his eyes began to water. Rubbing his face, he turned around to discover that his equally bored colleagues had been cornered by the enthusiastically chatty proprietor. Jo had her arms crossed as she studied the outline of her shoes on the crimson floor. Mac was staring skeptically up at a giant neon and glass jellyfish suspended from the ceiling above his head. When Don signaled to him to take over, he readily accepted the binoculars and took his place by the window without objection.

"Is Mac okay?" Don asked Jo, once the garrulous gallery owner had left. "He's got some heavy stuff going on these days."

"I know," she agreed, looking over at the man standing in the gallery window now. "He's a bit mellow. But he's taking it all rather well, I must say."

"Are you kidding?" Don answered and shook his head in wonder. "If I had _his_ worries, I'd be in a rubber room by now." Smiling warmly at Jo, he added, "I can't tell you how glad I am that he _finally_ made his move. You two were made for each other. He really needs someone to watch over him."

"That's funny," she laughed, "because he pretty much said the same thing about _you_, Don."

After another hour with no activity at the warehouse, Jo went over and draped her arm across Mac's shoulders. Smiling, he handed her the binoculars and joined Don to look at the paintings on the gallery walls.

"Have you seen these prices, Mac?" Don gave a low whistle. "That's your annual salary hanging on the wall right over there."

Mac saw that he was pointing at an oversized canvas covered with thousands of little daubs of glistening white paint. In the center, a small, indistinct figure seemed to be walking towards the viewer, as if emerging through a blizzard.

"To say this is understated may be a bit overstated," Mac commented dryly. Yet he remained to stare at the painting, his head tilted at a slight angle.

Don walked over to stand beside him. "Do you recognize this scene, Mac?" he asked, having noticed the puzzled expression on his friend's face. "It looks a lot like the day we met in Central Park."

"No, I don't actually _recognize_ it," Mac replied, shaking his head slowly. "It just looks oddly … familiar, somehow." Taking a closer look, he reached out and was just about to touch the canvas.

"You _don't_ want to do that," Don warned him. "That's actually non-drying paint. I've seen the stuff before. Normally, it's used by home owners to stop burglars."

"Oh?" Mac straightened up and turned to the homicide detective. "How can you be so sure?"

With a grimace, Don held up his white index finger. "Doesn't come off either," he added, making Mac throw back his head and laugh out loud.

He was still smiling when they went over to join Jo standing in the window.

"I think we all can agree that's no ordinary warehouse," she concluded on everyone's behalf. "The joisted bollards on the sidewalk are nothing special in themselves. Neither is the electrified fence up on the walls. But combine those with the nightvision-enabled CCTV cameras and biometric door locks, and I'd say this pirates' cove is pretty damned secure."

Mac saw a question already forming in Don's head. "_Don't_ ask," he warned him, but it was too late.

"_Pirates' cove_?" Don asked incredulously, looking back and forth between them. "Did I miss something? Is it International Speak Like a Pirate Day today?"

"Something like that," Mac sighed, looking pained, "but only at the Crime Lab." He recalled the two agents they had abandoned at the morgue. "Serves me right for telling Henry that DHS was a looney tune outfit," he muttered to himself.

Without lowering the binoculars, Jo explained her nascent plan to stage a pirate play at Lucy's birthday. "Captain Mac is still going to take some persuading," she sighed, "but I'd appreciate your support, Don."

"Cool," Don replied without hesitation. "Count me in."

At that moment, Jo gasped. "Do you see what I see?" she said, quickly handing the binoculars on to Mac.

Looking through the eyepieces, Mac saw a man and woman standing on the sidewalk alongside the warehouse. The man was casting a glance up and down the street, while the woman was having her fingerprints scanned by the door lock. The woman wore her jacket zipped halfway up, and the man had the top buttons of his coat undone. Before they entered the building, Mac caught a glimpse of the dark blue lanyards they wore around their necks under their outerwear.

"There's no doubt about it, those two were DHS agents," he breathed, his mind reeling. "That means it must be a Homeland Security warehouse," he explained to Don.

Taken aback, Don paused to comprehend the unexpected information. "Well, it would certainly explain a few things," he finally said. "But what would DHS be doing with a warehouse in downtown Manhattan? That part doesn't make any sense."

Jo looked thoughtful. "Actually, I think Pantone told us about this place when we met him at Trinity General," she reminded him. "He mentioned a warehouse full of medication to be distributed centrally to pharmacies in the event of a bioterrorism emergency. I think this warehouse must somehow be part of a national pharmaceutical stockpile."

Don rubbed his chin and shook his head. "So, are you saying our jogger could be a DHS employee?"

Looking skeptical, Mac shook his head. "I guess _in theory_ someone working for DHS could have access to weaponized anthrax. But there are protocols and procedures for that kind of stuff, and the anthrax DNA was not registered in the DHS databases. Anyway, it still doesn't explain the motive. I don't know anybody in DHS with a personal grudge against me."

"I hate to keep bringing this up," Jo told him reluctantly, "but you did punch Williams in the eye. Doesn't _that_ count as possible motive?"

"No, it _doesn't_," Mac replied with a frown, "because that happened _after_ the first balloon."

"So what do we do now?" Don asked. "Call Pantone?"

"Yes," Mac answered, "but not just yet. I'd rather bring him some actual evidence first. Let's go take a closer look at the warehouse ourselves."

Jo looked surprised. "We can't break into a DHS warehouse, Mac!"

"Who said anything about _breaking in_?" he replied. "We're just going to walk up to the front door and see how far we get."

Together, they crossed the cobbled street and approached the redbrick building. Glancing up at the two surveillance cameras mounted above their heads, Mac pressed the intercom buzzer at the entrance and waited. Once inside, they took turns walking through a security entrance encased in ballistic glass. When it was Don's turn, he was asked by the intercom voice to deposit his gun in a stainless steel inspection drawer, before he was allowed through to join the others.

Ahead of them, at the far side of a large foyer, a security guard was sitting at a horseshoe reception desk, watching them dourly. Behind him was a large security console with rows of monitors displaying video footage from inside and around the warehouse.

While Don stayed back to have a look around the vestibule, Mac and Jo walked up directly to the guard, a brawny man with a hostile glare.

"I'm Detective Mac Taylor from the NYPD Crime Lab," Mac said before pointing to his colleagues, "and these are Detectives Danville and Flack." When they held up their badges, Mac added, "I don't have any ID on me."

Without a word, the sullen security guard typed his name on his keyboard.

"No need," he replied tersely. "I know what you look like," he added, turning his monitor slightly to reveal Mac's official ID photo on his screen.

Mac looked at Jo and sighed. "Apparently, I don't need to bother getting a new badge."

Now the security guard looked closer at his screen. "It says here you're supposed to have two of our agents with you. Where are they now?" he asked, casting an accusing glance up at Mac.

"They got lost," Mac replied sharply, surprised to have been asked. "I want to speak to someone in charge here. We're investigating a crime and need access to the warehouse premises."

The guard bit his lip, obviously debating how to handle the unwelcome visitors. "That won't be possible," he finally said, shaking his head. "I'd need clearance from the top."

"No problem," Mac replied. "I suggest you call Director Pantone of the Counter Terrorism Office. He can vouch for us."

The man picked up phone and turned his back to them. "Director Pantone's Office, please," he said. After a pause, he added, "Yes, I'll hold. Tell him I've got several NYPD detectives here at the warehouse." He nodded several times. "Okay, I can do that."

"Just a moment," he said to Mac and Jo, "I'll be right back. You wait right here."

The guard rounded his desk and headed straight for a dark gray door close to where Don was standing. He punched a code on keypad panel beside the doorframe and left, slamming the steel door shut behind him.

For a few minutes, they waited in silence for the guard to return. While Mac and Jo watched the monitors on the console behind the desk, Don wandered over to the glass entrance to stare at the steel drawer with his gun inside.

"This sure is taking a long time," he finally said and walked over to lean against the wall by the gray door again.

Jo looked around the foyer. "It's a bit weird that the guard just left like that."

Uneasy, Mac brought out his cell phone to call Pantone himself. "Damn, there's no reception in here," he said, holding the phone up in the air.

Don straightened up with a sigh. "Well, I'm going to find out where that guard went," he said impatiently. "I saw the access code he entered on this keypad."

"Hey, Don, that's not a good idea," Jo said, shaking her head. "We should wait for him to come back."

"Don't worry. I'm just going to have a quick look-see inside," Don replied, already punching in the numbers. "I'll be right back."

Mac looked skeptical. "Be careful, Don," he warned, as his friend disappeared through the door.

Another five minutes passed, during which neither the security guard nor Don returned to the foyer.

"This is taking _way_ too long. Something is definitely wrong here," Mac concluded. He walked behind the reception desk to take a closer look at the guard's workstation screen. "Why would a security guard just abandon his desk like this?" He tried to type a command on the keyboard, but it was locked and the screen frozen.

Jo was still staring up at the row of monitors on the security console behind his back. Most of them just showed overhead views of empty offices, hallways, warehouse aisles and loading areas. Suddenly, though, she noticed movement on one of the middle screens.

"Mac, look!" she cried out.

The monitor showed a wide aisle between two long rows of floor-to-ceiling pallet racks inside the warehouse. Assistant Director Williams was walking along the plywood crates, the swollen bruise around his right eye unmistakable, despite the low-quality, black-and-white video footage.

Mac looked up at the screen, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Sheesh. What's _he_ doing here?" he muttered.

Upon hearing these words, Jo's head whipped around to look at him. "Oh my God, Mac!"

"What?" he asked her, not comprehending the reason for her sudden anxiety.

"That's _exactly_ how you said those words to me in Central Park," she exclaimed, overwhelmed by the memory rushing back at her. She pointed to the image on the monitor. "I think we've just found our jogger!"

Scowling, Mac stared at the screen and noticed that Williams was carrying a handgun. "And I think that guard just warned _him_ about _us_," he exclaimed angrily, pounding his fist on the desk. "Jo, hit the redial button on that desk phone."

Jo raised the receiver and pushed the button. On the monitor, they saw Williams immediately stop dead in his tracks and pull a cell phone out of his pocket. Reading the caller ID on his phone, he turned around slowly to stare directly up at them on the monitor.

"Hang up, Jo," Mac shouted. "Call 911 instead!"

But it was already too late. Jo had just pressed the switch hook, when the Assistant Director shoved his elbow into an alarm panel on the side of the rack, breaking the glass.

Without warning, a siren emitted a shrill howl right above Mac and Jo's heads, which jolted both of them like an agonizing electric shock. Dropping the phone receiver on the floor, Jo's hands flew up to cover her ears, while Mac instinctively doubled over, his arms over his head. When he straightened up again, she could see – rather than actually hear – him furiously mouthing a string of expletives.

The piercing siren overhead continued to assault their ears mercilessly, reverberating right into their bones. To Jo, it felt like the pain would eventually fracture her skull, making Sid's electric saw seem like a lullaby by comparison. Her fingers still buried deep inside her ears, she ran to the glass entrance door and tugged at the handle, surprised to find it wouldn't budge. In the meantime, Mac was scanning the multicolored, blinking LED lights on an annunciator panel for a way to disable the alarm.

Jo returned and yelled, "Why won't the doors open?" in his ear. She pointed to the flashing red strobe light above the entrance.

"That's because this is a _lockdown_, not a fire alarm," he shouted back, grimacing. "We'd need an override code to deactivate the alarm."

"Should we still call 911?" she asked, pointing to the desk phone.

He raised the receiver to his ear and pressed the switch hook several times, but the connection had already been severed. Behind his back, Jo was watching the screens on the monitor console again. With his hand, Williams was waving for someone else to come forward and join him in front of the security camera.

"Oh, no!" Jo cried out in horror, her hands clasped over her face.

Feeling her hands tug urgently at his sleeve, Mac turned around and blanched when he saw that his worst fears had just been realized. The security guard was standing beside Williams now, the crook of his muscular arm wrapped tightly around the neck of another man.

Rivulets of blood were streaming down the side of Don's head, matting his hair and streaking his face. His eyes were downcast as he struggled with both hands to pry the guard's chokehold from his throat. Suddenly, the guard let go of him and he stumbled backwards and fell against one of the plywood crates on the rack.

Now the guard jabbed the barrel of a shotgun up under Don's chin, making him gag as his head was pushed backwards against the crate. With some effort, he managed to wedge his hand between the shotgun muzzle and his throat, but he evidently didn't have the strength to push it away. Leering up at the camera, Williams extended his own gun down at Don's head and cocked the hammer. With the index finger of his other hand, he made a beckoning sign towards Mac and Jo, inviting them to join him as well.

"They're going to kill him!" Jo shouted.

"You stay here, Jo!" Mac ran to the steel door and grabbed the handle. "I've got to get in there to stop them!"

"But how?" she cried out, following him to the door. "We don't have the access code!" she reminded him.

"I have an idea." He looked closely at the keypad by the doorframe, hoping that the security code did not include any repeated digits. "Get me that flashlight over there," he shouted, pointing back at the guard's reception desk.

Jo quickly retrieved a large, black flashlight and held it up to shine its light on the keypad for him. Shutting the incessant siren blare from his mind, Mac studied the four white fingerprint smudges on the black keypad. Based on the tiny disparity in the amount of paint residue left on each button, he tried to work out the order in which Don had touched the numbers. After hesitating for a moment, he punched the code into the keypad in the correct order, instantly deactivating the door lock.

Realizing that he couldn't stop Jo from coming with him, Mac for once didn't hold the door gallantly open for his partner. Instead, he motioned for her to get behind him as he stepped through the gray steel doorway into the warehouse. Armed with only a Maglite flashlight, the two of them then entered the pirates' cove in search of their fellow buccaneer.

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><p><strong>Next: Chapter 10 – "The Lockdown" <strong>Mac's premonition is proven right


	10. The Lockdown

**Author's note: **Thanks again to those of you who have reviewed my story again.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10 – "The Lockdown"<strong>

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><p>When the steel door shut behind her, Jo Danville exhaled with relief, realizing that the blaring siren in the foyer had made her hold her breath. Now that the clangor had ceased, the sudden silence was like having cotton wool stuffed into her eardrums. Ahead of her, she saw Mac shake his head and try to clear his ears with his fingers, as well.<p>

"Christ, I thought my head was going to implode," he grumbled and looked back at her. "Are you okay, Jo?"

She nodded grimly. "I'm fine, Mac."

As they edged their way along a long corridor, the howl of the siren died off. When they reached four identical doors with frosted windows, Mac raised his finger to his lips and motioned for Jo to back up against the wall. Now she heard agitated voices, and suddenly one of the doors was flung open. The man and woman they had seen on the sidewalk rushed out of the office, hurriedly putting on their coats. Then they disappeared in the opposite direction, too preoccupied with discussing the lockdown to notice the two NYPD detectives.

Mac and Jo waited for their voices to fade before continuing. Twenty yards up ahead, the corridor intersected a much wider hallway. Two signs, "Warehouse Manager" and "Shipping Clerk" pointed back at the offices they had just passed. A sign pointed left to the "Loading Docks" and another right to "Pallet Storage". Finally, a sign "High Bay Storage" pointed straight ahead towards a narrow, unlit staircase.

Cautiously, Mac pulled at the handle of the steel door beside the first flight of stairs, but it was locked. They then walked up to the second floor landing and tried the next door with the same result. Hearing white noise static below, they held their breaths for a moment, as someone started to ascend the stairs while trying to get a signal on a walkie-talkie. Fortunately, the person appeared to change his mind, and the amplified squelch descended back down the steps again. When the noise had disappeared, Mac and Jo sprinted the last few steps to the top landing and discovered that the third door was unlocked.

They emerged onto a steel catwalk suspended two stories above the high-bay storage area of the warehouse. On their left was a lower-level loading zone with the six docks they had seen from the street. On their right, there was a dozen rows of storage racks filled with plywood crates and shrink-wrapped cardboard boxes. Straight ahead, they saw a large, nearly-empty staging area with a few stacked pallets and two parked forklift trucks. A steady stream of cool air wafted down from the ceiling fans mounted on the bar joists high above their heads.

Looking down, Jo immediately spotted Don sitting between the security guard and the DHS Assistant Director, halfway down the staging area. Looking decidedly the worse for wear, the detective was slumped against one of the floor-to-ceiling storage racks. His hair was matted with smeared blood, and he was wiping his eye with the heel of his hand.

Unexpectedly, a draft caught the steel door, slamming it shut behind Mac and Jo, the crash resonating right across the four warehouse walls. Jo saw Williams' head whip around to stare up at them in surprise. Mac darted back to yank the door handle only to find it firmly locked now. Swearing under his breath, he repeated the access code on the keypad, but the door didn't yield.

"Don, are you all right?" Jo shouted, clutching the catwalk handrails before her. To her relief, the homicide detective glanced up at her and raised a defiant hand above his head.

"He _won't_ be," Williams snapped, brandishing his gun in the air, "unless Taylor comes down here right _now_!"

"Let him _go_ first, and then I'll come down," Mac shouted back, standing beside Jo at the handrails now. "This is between you and me, Williams!"

"Don't do it, Mac!" Don called out to his friend. "He's going to _kill_ you."

For this remark, the security guard kicked him in the chest with his safety boots. Rolling onto his side with a muted gasp, Don wrapped his arms around his aching ribs. Then he felt the guard push the barrel of his shotgun against the nape of his neck.

"It's not like you have a _choice_ here, Taylor!" Williams yelled impatiently, pointing down at Don now. "You're sitting ducks up there - Jones and I can easily pick you off. If you don't come down right now, your detective friend here will lose his head. And that's a _promise_."

"Damn it!" Disgusted by the sight of Don's ordeal, Mac felt his anger well up like bile in his throat. His fingers tightened their grip on the handrail as his eyes scanned the high-bay storage area for some alternative to obeying Williams' command. Seeing no other option, he glanced over at Jo before starting to walk towards the steel stairs leading down to the staging area.

"_Hey_, you can't go down there!" Jo cried out, grabbing the back of his sweatshirt. Yet even as she said it, she realized it had been an impossible decision. Beyond doubt, a man like Williams wouldn't hesitate to kill Don to get what he wanted. As his opening gambit, Mac had no choice but to yield to the Assistant Director, if he wanted to keep everyone alive as long as possible.

"I have to do _something_, Jo," Mac replied grimly, turning around to look at her. "Maybe I can stall them long enough for you and Don to find a way out of here. Sooner or later, someone at Homeland Security is going to investigate this lockdown."

She nodded reluctantly, biting her lip. "Be careful, Mac. I don't like this at all."

"Whatever happens now, promise me you'll stay up here, okay?" Recognizing the fear in her eyes, he smiled to reassure her before leaving. "Don't worry, Jo, it'll be all right." He fought a sudden urge to cradle her head between his hands and kiss her, but he couldn't afford revealing to Williams that she was more than just a colleague. "You and I still have unfinished business, remember?" he reminded her gently instead.

"Hands!" Williams shouted sourly and flicked his fingers upwards impatiently.

Mac raised his arms and put his hands on his head as he slowly descended the steel steps. In addition to the six loading docks on his left, he noted a stairwell door and a large freight elevator at the far end of the staging area. He suspected that most door locks would be activated during the lockdown, but that Williams would be in possession of a universal override code.

When he reached the second landing of the switchback stairway, he called out, "This is all on camera, Williams," to buy himself more time. "You'll never get away with this." Based on the security guard's monitors, he had already identified the location of most of the surveillance cameras installed in the high-bay area. In the event of a lockdown, it was possible that some of them would automatically switch to providing DHS headquarters with live-feed footage.

"Don't be so naïve, Taylor," Williams sneered at him. "Jones and I have plenty of time to wipe the tapes."

His hands still on his head, Mac now slowly crossed the staging area towards Williams, who kept his unwavering handgun trained on him. As he approached his friend still lying on the floor, Mac shot him a concerned glance.

"Are you going to be okay, Don?" he called out.

Don pushed himself up on one elbow, his usual carefree grin now more of a grimace. "Don't worry, I'll live," he replied through clenched teeth. "Give 'em hell, Mac."

Jones, the security guard, sidled around Mac at a safe distance, before jabbing the shotgun against his neck and shoving him towards a storage rack. When Mac placed his palms against the metal, the guard kicked his feet farther apart and began to pat him down. He fished the cell phone and three plastic vials from his pockets and held them up for Williams to see.

"Get rid of that stuff," Williams ordered. "He won't be needing it where he's going."

With an overhead throw, the security guard tossed Mac's possessions over the guardrails. They all heard them clatter onto the concrete floor of the loading zone, fifteen feet below the staging area. Now Williams walked up behind Mac, and Jones retreated to guard Don instead. The DHS Director held his gun against the back of Mac's head.

"What the _hell_ are you playing at, Williams?" Mac snarled over his shoulder. "At least tell me why you're doing this!"

Williams leaned closer and hissed a single word into Mac's ear. When he heard the unexpected accusation, Mac's head jerked back against the muzzle of the gun.

"_What …_," he growled, his eyebrows arched in astonishment, "… did you just call me?" He slowly lowered his arms and turned around to face Williams.

Over the years, Mac had been called an assortment of colorful names by those he had investigated, interrogated, arrested – and even testified against. He habitually filtered out the insults to the point where it had actually become a challenge to quote suspects verbatim in his reports and court testimonies. Yet he was still certain that never before in his career had anyone called him a _Judas_.

His hand already clenched tightly, Williams pivoted around and threw a spinning back fist at Mac, catching him squarely on the jaw and sending him sprawling across the floor. Caught off guard by the sudden martial arts move, Mac lay on his back for a few seconds, blinking away the stars dancing around the edge of his vision. Then he rolled over on his side and sat up slowly, shaking his head and working his aching jaw back and forth.

"Damn, that felt _good_!" Grimacing, Williams shook his hand in the air and flexed his fingers painfully. Rocking back and forth on his feet, he invited Mac with his fingertips, "C'mon, Taylor, you want a piece of me?"

Still dazed by the blow, Mac steadied himself against the floor, waiting for his dizziness to pass. From where he sat, he was able to study the Assistant Director's painfully swollen eye and admire his own handiwork instead. "No need," he replied dryly. "I obviously threw a better punch from my hospital bed."

"I'll take care of Taylor right over there," Williams called out to the security guard. He pointed towards the bright yellow guardrails between the staging area and the loading zone below. "You get the other two detectives out of here. I want this place empty when his body is found."

With his hands, the security guard motioned for Don to get up off the ground. When they started walking towards the catwalk stairs, Williams aimed his gun at Mac again.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Mac asked defiantly. "Shoot me?"

"A bullet is too good to waste on you, Taylor," Williams replied. "God knows, I've already wasted two balloons on you. But you know what they say, third time's the charm." Reaching behind a plywood crate in the closest rack bay, he pulled out a light green balloon attached to a few inches of string.

Upon seeing the balloon, Mac drew back involuntarily. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he muttered, angry with himself for being unnerved by something that looked so innocent.

Watching them from the top of the catwalk, Jo gasped when she suddenly saw the balloon dangling from Williams' hand. Then the Assistant Director walked to guardrail by the loading zone and very carefully lowered the balloon to the floor.

"You're going to pick this up, Taylor," he told Mac.

"Like hell I am," Mac replied. "If you actually think I'm going to touch _that_," he growled, glancing over at the balloon, "you really _are_ a few sandwiches short of a picnic."

"Oh, but I'm a reasonable man. I'll even give you a _choice_," Williams interrupted, coming back to get Mac. "You can either pick it up right now, or you can pick it up in a minute with _her_ screams in your ears." With his gun, he pointed up at Jo on the catwalk. "Jones will shoot her in the knees, one at a time. Who knows, she might still outlive you, but I sincerely doubt it."

Keeping his gun aimed steadily at the man on the floor, Williams slowly backed away from him. "So go ahead, Taylor, _pick it up_."

Turning his head, Mac eyed the lethal balloon on the floor behind him, before glancing over to check the relative positions of Jo, Don and the security guard. If he could only keep Williams occupied a little longer, he might work out a way to lure the guard away from his fellow detectives. Playing to the Assistant Director's ego, he rubbed his jaw and groaned, bringing a smug smile to Williams' lips.

There was no way in hell he was getting close to that balloon. Even if he didn't actually touch it, Williams could easily spread the anthrax spores by shooting the balloon from a distance. He couldn't use it as a weapon himself, since it was to light to actually throw anywhere. Perhaps dropping it over the side into the loading zone was his best option, but Williams would still undoubtedly shoot him for his effort.

"What the hell _insane_ kind of idea is this?" he asked of the Assistant Director, trying to buy himself some time again. "Tell me why you are trying to kill me with _anthrax_."

His face inscrutable, Williams stared down at Mac in silence for a minute. "This is my way of avenging the death of a great man," he finally replied. "You pretended to be his friend, but instead you stabbed him in the back. When you draw your dying breath, I want you to be reminded _exactly_ of what you did to him."

"_What_ man? What am I supposed to have done?" Mac asked, exasperated. Annoyed at himself, he realized he had actually been expecting an explanation that made more sense. "Who in God's name are you talking about?"

"_Henry_, of course, who else?" Williams replied, looking surprised. "That's what _these_ are all about." He pointed to the green party balloon lying by the guardrail. "Don't tell me you don't see the connection."

"_What_!"

Mac's mind reeled, trying desperately to comprehend what Williams was telling him. In a flash, he recalled how he had talked to the DHS Director only last night, when Pantone had told him he'd take care of everything. He had even slung his arm over Mac's shoulder, which Mac had understood to be his unspoken forgiveness for having refused the favor.

"Are you telling me … he's _dead_?" he asked, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"I know he asked you to _kill_ him," Williams continued, his voice filling with resentment, "even though I begged him _not_ to." He shook his head, looking disgusted. "You know, all these years, I never really understood his loyalty to you. Well, I was right to be suspicious, wasn't I?"

"But I _didn't_ kill him, did I now?" Mac yelled at him in confusion, unable to grasp where all of this was leading. "I turned him _down_, you idiot!"

He was grateful that he was still sitting on the floor, because the conversation was spinning his head. "Your own DHS agents have been trailing me since last night," he added. "You must already know that I can't possibly have killed him!"

"His death is still on _your_ conscience, Taylor!" Williams shouted back. "Henry always trusted you!"

"If anyone has killed him, it'll be _you_, Williams," Mac replied angrily. "Henry told me you were willing to do him the favor." A sudden thought struck him. "Are you somehow trying to set me up for his murder?"

"Don't you _dare_ try to blame Henry's death on me!" His voice thick with anguish, Williams pointed a quavering finger at Mac. "Unlike you, I've always been his true friend."

"This doesn't make sense!" Mac shook his head in disbelief. "Are you really _seriously_ accusing me of killing Henry? Does that mean _you_ didn't do it yourself?"

Realizing that Mac was stringing the conversation out, Williams cleared his throat and spoke harshly. "Pick up the balloon _now_, Taylor, or Jones kills the detectives!"

"Williams, just _listen_ to yourself," Mac entreated him. "How can these balloons be vengeance for Henry's death? He was still alive last night - after _you_ left the second balloon in my apartment. And the first balloon in Central Park was _ten_ days ago."

"Don't give me that crap, Taylor," Williams replied testily. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. So get up now or your friends die in agony."

"If I killed Henry, you'd think I'd _remember_ doing it, right?" Mac finally rose unsteadily to his feet. Over Williams' shoulder, he saw the security guard marching Don towards the steel stairway at the other end of the staging area.

Williams shook his head with a sigh. "You know, I never really understood that memory loss shit you've been trying to pull," he replied. "I _know_ you don't remember seeing me in Central Park. I'd have killed you at Trinity, if you did. But I just don't buy that you don't remember betraying Henry."

For the first time, Mac realized it hadn't been a coincidence that he had encountered the first balloon the morning after his first meeting with Pantone. Suddenly, a shadow of doubt crept into his mind. Had he really refused to do Pantone the favor at the sports bar? He now recalled how reluctant the Director had been to bring the subject up again at the coffee shop.

Could he trust himself to have reacted exactly the same way _both_ times Pantone approached him? Or had he somehow given in to his friend and instructed him on how to commit suicide painlessly? But Pantone had also been adamant that suicide was a mortal sin, not at all a viable option. It just didn't make any sense.

"But why anthrax balloons?" he finally asked Williams. "Why on earth did you choose such an _idiotic_ weapon? This is also directed at someone else, isn't it?"

"Did you figure that out all by yourself, Taylor?" Williams laughed out loud. "Yes, it's the proverbial two birds with one stone," he added, before rolling his eyes. "Except it took me _three_ balloons to get you and Henry's _other_ Judas, the _Mayor_."

"_What_?"

If this was somehow part of an elaborate plan to throw Mac off-guard, the Assistant Director was succeeding. Mac's attempt at working out an escape had already been sidetracked by these mind-boggling revelations. In fact, he now wondered how much force Williams' punch had packed, because nothing seemed to make sense to him at all. Obviously, anyone who dreamed up anthrax balloons as a murder weapon was not entirely sane. Yet Mac had always known Williams as hard-nosed and calculating, never irrational, and he had always taken him very seriously.

At that moment, Williams turned his head, distracted by sudden commotion between Don and the security guard. With his shotgun aimed squarely at the back of Don's head, Jones had followed the detective to the foot of the catwalk stairway. When Don had taken the first three steps, he suddenly spun around and grabbed the shotgun with both hands, wrenching one of guard's hands off the gun.

Standing on the catwalk landing directly above them, Jo heard the scuffle below. Suddenly a shot rang out, and sparks flew from the steel catwalk floor below her feet. With a soft thwack, something struck her leg behind her knee. Jo cried out and dropped down onto the catwalk floor, clasping her wounded knee with both hands. Reluctantly, she put her fingers through the torn fabric and counted three shotgun pellets, two of which rolled out and clinked against the steel bar grating.

Mac knew he had to react quickly if he wanted to take advantage of the distraction. He pushed aside any doubt in his mind whether he – only three days out of hospital – had the strength to take on the Assistant Director. Making a fast decision, he lunged himself at Williams to try to wrest the gun from his grasp.

Sitting on the catwalk landing, Jo now saw four hands grappling for the gun held outstretched above the two men's heads. Mac stomped his heel down onto Williams' foot, causing the man to yelp and loosen his grip on the gun. Letting go with one hand himself, Mac then turned to ram his elbow into Williams' ribs. With a gasp, Williams doubled over, and the gun rattled across the concrete floor towards the guardrail.

Jo watched helplessly as both men scrabbled desperately for the gun. A few steps ahead of Williams, Mac suddenly felt the man's arms wrap around his waist, pinning his own arms down against his sides. He threw his head backwards and felt blood from Williams' nose spatter into his hair. Then he managed to wedge one foot behind Williams' leg and – by twisting sideways – push the Assistant Director backwards across his knee.

"Damn you, Taylor!"

To break his fall, Williams grabbed the collar of Mac's sweatshirt, and they both sprawled backwards onto to the floor. Getting up onto his knees, Williams now had the crook of his arm around Mac's neck, his muscles flexed tightly against his throat. Gasping for breath, Mac reached up blindly behind his back to jab two fingers into Williams' swollen eye. The headlock loosened long enough for him to break free and push himself up off the floor. He delivered a quick hook punch to Williams' bloodied face before scrambling up over him to get to the gun.

Unexpectedly, the Assistant Director managed to grab Mac's ankle and yank his leg backwards. Caught off-balance, Mac fell and rolled wearily onto his back, his grazed cheek stinging from the impact. Now Williams leapt up to sit astride Mac's chest, his hands tightening a firm grip on his throat. Mac grabbed Williams' lapels to pull him closer, using his arm to first hook, and then bend, the man's elbow. With his feet, he pinioned Williams' ankles, enabling himself to pound Williams twice with his fist, before rolling him off his body and onto the floor.

"Get _off_ me, you lunatic!"

Putting a hand on the floor to steady himself, Mac scrambled for the gun again. Behind him, Williams got shakily to his feet and grabbed a crowbar lying on a nearby stack of pallets. Now Mac was standing with the gun finally in his hand, his back turned to Williams.

"Mac!" Jo shouted to warn him. "Behind you!"

Alerted by her voice, Mac spun around to catch a glimpse of Williams swinging the crowbar, just as it struck him in the small of his back. The gun flew out of his hand and careered across the floor, before disappearing under a stack of pallets. Mac yelled out in pain and stumbled a few steps backwards against the guardrail.

Casting aside the crowbar, Williams raced in the direction of the gun. When he reached the pallet stack, he threw himself down onto his knees and fished around unsuccessfully for a few seconds. Finally, he lay down on his stomach and retrieved the gun with a cry of triumph.

"Hah!"

Behind him, Mac had taken a running start and was already sliding across the floor on his knees before slamming into Williams' back. With both hands, he brought the crowbar down over the man's head and pulled it back sharply against his throat. Gurgling for air, Williams somehow still managed to wedge one hand up under the crowbar, while pointing the wobbly gun over his shoulder. Mac let go of the bar and threw himself to the floor, and two gunshots in rapid succession resonated across the high-bay area.

With a grunt, Williams wrenched his shoulders around, the crowbar in his own hands now. Raising it high above his head, he struck down several times at Mac, who rolled from side to side, covering his head with his arms. Then the crowbar slammed into him, its sharp edge tearing through his sweatshirt. Mac grabbed his injured shoulder and swore through his clenched teeth.

Now Williams flung the crowbar aside and reached down to pick up the gun instead. Panting heavily, he bent down to put his hand on his knee, taking time to catch his breath. Then he wiped the back of his hand under his nose to check that the nosebleed had stopped. Finally, he looked around for the balloon, recognizing an opportunity to carry out his intended plan.

"Get up, Taylor," he sneered, aiming his gun at the man still lying on the floor. "You were just about to do me a favor, remember?"

Likewise breathless from their struggle, Mac rose sluggishly to his feet, his hand still holding his shoulder. Cocking the hammer of the gun, Williams took a few steps forward. He shoved his hand roughly against Mac's wounded shoulder to force him back towards the guardrail. Too exhausted to resume the fight or even to resist, Mac stumbled backwards and realized he had one last chance to change his fate.

"Over here!" he suddenly shouted and waved his hand, pretending to catch sight of someone over Williams' shoulder.

The ploy was enough to make Williams hesitate for a split second before taking another step, his foot raised in mid-air. Mac quickly grabbed the front of Williams' shirt and let himself roll backwards, using his body weight to pull Williams further off-balance. Bending his knee, he planted his foot firmly on the man's stomach and pulled him up off the ground, as he rolled onto his back. Then he straightened his leg and sent the Assistant Director flying over his head, clearing the guardrail by just a few inches.

Feeling himself unexpectedly airborne, Williams yelled and flailed his arms in panic. As he hurtled head first down into the loading zone, the gun flew out of his hand and clanked onto the concrete floor next to Mac. A final gunshot echoed around the warehouse and then there was just a deafening silence.

From the second level landing of the catwalk, Jo had watched with bated breath as the two men struggled for control of the gun. Seeing Williams' body disappear down into the loading zone, she finally let out a deep sigh of relief and pulled herself upright against the handrail. When the gun landed on the floor, she saw Mac flinch at the sound of the gunshot only yards from his head. With one hand clamped onto his injured shoulder again, he rolled over onto his side to regain his breath.

"Well done, Mac!" Jo shouted down to him. "Are you okay? You _got_ Williams!"

Rolling onto his back again, Mac raised one knee, still too breathless from his struggle with the Assistant Director to reply.

Jo couldn't see Don very clearly through the steel bar grating of the catwalk floor beneath her feet. Instead, she leaned over the handrail to get a better look. She gasped when she saw the blood spattered all over the floor and wall, and smeared across the steel stair treads. "Oh my God, Don! Are you all right down there?"

"Could be better." Don was sitting on bottom step, holding his head with one hand and steadying himself against the handrail with other. The body of the guard was slumped into the corner between the stairs and the wall. "This is all _his_ blood," he explained.

"Thank God, you're all right!" Jo exclaimed. "How's your head?"

"I'm okay, Jo, really," he replied, craning his neck to look up at her. He picked up the shotgun and checked its chamber magazine for unspent shells, but it was empty. "But my head's killing me, and I think I'm going to throw up." He let the shotgun roll out of his hands and clatter onto the floor. "You have _no_ _idea_ how much I regret having breakfast this morning," he added with a deep sigh.

"You probably have a concussion," she replied with concern. "Mac and I will find a way out of here and get you to a hospital."

Something wet suddenly spattered on Don's forehead, and he reached up to touch it. Staring down at his fingertips, he realized that Jo was hurt as well.

"Hey! Are _you_ all right, Jo?" he asked her, equally worried. "You're dripping _blood_ on me down here."

"I'm okay, Don. It's not that bad," she reassured him, yet she grimaced as she took a step towards the stairs. "The buckshot didn't go in deep. They probably hit something else on their way up."

"No kidding, Jo," she heard him mumble below. "I'm glad you're not squeamish, because that was probably the guard's _head_." Looking around him and down at his coat, he pulled a disgusted face. "Yuck, this is all just so _gross_."

"You've got to get your_ own_ head looked at," Jo replied. "You just stay put, Don. Mac and I'll work something out. Do you still have your phone on you? I didn't have time to bring mine."

"Nope." Don winced as he looked up at her. "That bastard smashed it after he bashed me with his shotgun. And I've already checked _his_ pockets." He pointed at the guard's lifeless body. "But there's no cell phone coverage in here, remember? Mac already checked it in the lobby."

"Yes, there _is_," she told him. "We called Williams on his cell phone in here. Maybe we can get to Mac's phone instead. Mac," she shouted out without looking up, "can you see your phone down in the loading zone? Is it still intact?"

When he didn't answer, Jo glanced up, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Mac?" she called out to him. "Mac!"

Still lying beside the guardrails, Mac's face was now contorted with pain as he clutched his injured shoulder. Jo froze when she saw the blood oozing from between his fingers and pooling on the floor beneath him. He kept trying to roll over on his side to get up, but his feet just slid sluggishly across the floor.

"Oh, no!" Jo cried out, realizing immediately what had happened. "The gun – he's been hit!"

* * *

><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 11 – "The Third Balloon"<strong> Jo and Don have to find a way to save Mac (again)


	11. The Third Balloon

**Author's Note: **Thank you very much for kindly reading and reviewing the previous chapter.

So, do you have this awful feeling we've been forgetting something? Well, we have, it's …

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><p><strong>Chapter 11 – "The Third Balloon"<strong>

* * *

><p>On that Maundy Thursday afternoon, the tail end of an unseasonably late nor'easter rumbled along the Eastern seaboard, causing the atmospheric pressure to drop right across the Tri-State area. In New York City, a gusty wind swept down the Hudson River to blow away the sunny morning, as a front of ominously dark clouds rolled in from the north.<p>

In the West Village, a tow truck driver slowed down to take a closer look at a ticketed, black Avalanche parked in a residential side street. Listening to his radio, he swore loudly when he heard that the first Major League baseball games of the season would be postponed due to the heavy showers expected.

Parked beside the stairs to the southern tip of the High Line, the Gorilla Cheese vendor handed out his last smoked Gouda and pulled pork sandwich for the day. Then he wiped down his stainless steel counter and latched the serving window on his mustard yellow truck.

Down by the Hudson River waterfront, two sailing school instructors were using megaphones to call in a class of high-school students in J24's. Clad in orange life vests, the students all moored safely in front of the Pier 66 boathouse and congratulated each other with triumphant high-fives.

On Tenth Avenue, a lively group of Asian tourists decided to weather the oncoming rain inside an expensive Chelsea crafts boutique. The smiling staff exchanged knowing glances when they spied the platinum credit cards already being drawn from their purses.

Up on the High Line, the gardeners quickly raised their raincoat hoods when they saw low-flying swallows dip and dart across the boardwalk. Then they meticulously gathered together their trowels, pruners, and shears before taking cover inside a tiny wooden toolshed.

At the top of the steps to the 23rd Street subway station, a young mother stared wretchedly up at the sky, the first drops already drenching her hair. Gratefully, she accepted help from commuters, who carried the stroller with her two crying toddlers down to the E line bound for Queens.

Meanwhile, in an unassuming street intersecting the High Line, an art gallery owner peered through his front window at the redbrick building diagonally opposite. He wondered vaguely if the sudden downpour had set off the flashing alarm beacon above its entrance. Earlier, he had been surprised to learn that his last three visitors – whom he had mistaken for close friends – were in fact NYPD detectives staking out the warehouse across the street.

Inside the empty warehouse foyer, a siren blared shrilly, unheeded by the pedestrians racing along the sidewalk outside. A screen saver with the DHS logo looped endlessly on the abandoned workstation monitor on the reception desk. Next to the computer, the curly cord of the desk phone stretched down to its receiver, which had been left lying on the floor.

On the console wall behind the desk, the black-and-white monitors still showed overhead views of empty offices, hallways and warehouse aisles. However, one wide-angle shot of the loading zone now suddenly included a figure lying motionless on the floor.

Along the foyer wall, next to a smudged keypad, a locked steel door barred entry to a long corridor, where silence reigned once again. Here, one of the office doors stood ajar, a clear violation of DHS security protocol. At the end of the corridor, a staircase led up to another locked door, behind which a black flashlight lay forgotten on the floor of a steel catwalk.

Above high-bay storage area, the torrential downpour that was inundating the rest of New York City pummeled the cement tile roof. For several different reasons, however, none of the five people inside were aware of the abrupt change in weather outside.

The dark-haired man down in the loading zone lay spread-eagle on his stomach. His eyes were closed, and his head was nestled on the crook of his arm. Except for the blood on his face, he almost looked like he had decided to take a powernap, right there on the concrete floor.

At the other end of the storage area, a second, much burlier man lay equally inert. His body was slumped like a rag doll between a steel stairway and the brick wall. With one arm pinned under his back, and the other flung over what was left of his head, he did _not_ look like he was merely sleeping.

Sitting on the switchback stairs next to him, a third man held his hand up to a gash on the side of his head. A shotgun at his feet, he was blinking his eyes to get them to focus properly. He craned his neck to look up at a woman standing on the steel landing directly above his head.

To assuage her injured knee, the woman rested her foot on the bottom rung of the catwalk railing. Her knuckles were white from clenching the handrail tightly. She kept her eyes fixed on a fourth man lying at the other end of the staging area, fifteen feet above the first man.

Sprawled on his back, this man was dragging his feet across the floor in an effort to roll onto his side. He kept his hand clamped over a gunshot wound under the sleeve of his black sweatshirt. After several failed attempts, he let go of his shoulder and stretched out his arm to gain more momentum.

"Stay where you are, Mac! We'll be right over," Jo called out, before leaning over the handrail to look down at Don. "He's bleeding badly! It looks like it's his arm."

When he finally made it onto his injured right side, Mac bit his lower lip to stifle a groan. Then he put his left hand on the floor with a determined grimace and tried to push himself upright.

On his feet now, Don looked across the staging area and saw Mac struggling to get up off the floor. "Hey, are you all right?" he called out, anticipating a gruff reply.

At that moment, Mac's hand slipped on the wet floor, and he gasped as his shoulder collided with the concrete. He held his arms tightly across his chest as he fought to regain his breath. Coughing to clear his throat, he allowed himself to rest for a few seconds before turning doggedly to his other side.

"What are you _doing_?" Jo shouted, unable to make sense of his actions. "Just stay down, Mac. We're on our way!"

With a firm hand on the handrail, she began limping slowly towards the stairs. Apart from the sharp pain behind her knee, a spasm ran up her leg with each step. The buckshot had probably torn a hamstring, but Mac's behavior was too alarming for her to stay up on the catwalk.

Now Mac drew his left arm under his chest and rolled onto his stomach. Then he raised himself onto his elbow and slowly began pulling his legs up underneath him. Finally, he was sitting on his knees with a faraway, dazed look in his eyes. Letting go of his wounded arm again, he steadied himself against the floor before attempting to get up onto his feet.

"Mac, are you _listening_?" Jo shouted, suspecting that he was in some form of shock. It was the only possible explanation for why he would disregard his injury in this way.

"Just take it easy, Mac! I'm coming right over," Don yelled and immediately started stumbling across the staging area.

"Hey, don't even _think_ about getting up," he added, shocked to see the blood smeared on the floor under Mac.

Brought to his senses by their shouting, Mac held up his outstretched hand to stop them.

"No!" Somehow his hoarse voice cut across their frantic shouting. "Fall back!"

Although he was only twenty yards away now, Don stopped dead in his tracks. He had never heard such desperation in Mac's voice before. Taken aback, he stared at the man sitting unsteadily on his knees ahead of him. Mac's face was blank, but he had a strange expression in his eyes that Don had only seen once before, in Central Park.

"Don't … fell …" Mac gasped, too breathless to speak coherently. With a grimace, he wrapped his arms across his chest and bent forward. Unable to keep himself upright any longer, he slid sidelong onto the floor.

Jo's heart plummeted to her stomach as her eyes scanned the staging area floor below. The green balloon was nowhere in sight. Then she threw herself down the stairs, two steps at a time, supporting herself on both handrails. Biting back the pain, she hobbled across the staging area towards Don as fast as she could.

"No, Don, _stop_!" she cried out to warn him. "I think he fell on the balloon!"

Don spun around to stare at her, his mouth agape.

"Oh no, no, no, Jo …" he exhaled slowly and shook his head in disbelief. "_Please_ tell me you didn't just say that!"

Turning to look for himself, he spotted the remnants of the balloon on the floor beside Mac. He winced as a sudden rush of adrenaline intensified his headache.

"Mac, you need to get away from there!" Jo yelled, cupping her hands to her mouth. "Come over here to us!"

"Get up off the floor _now_, Mac!" Don shouted and waved his arms above his head. "C'mon, you can do it!"

Mac lay blinking up at the warehouse ceiling, feeling the brick walls close in, threatening to suffocate him. Breathing was already becoming more and more strenuous, as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the air. Every time he inhaled, a searing white pain shot through his chest, shortening his next breath. Now his vision kept blurring as well, and the concrete floor swayed and tilted underneath him, making him feel seasick. Much against his will, he was forced to accept that he no longer had the strength to save himself. With a grunt, he kicked out his foot to vent his frustration.

"Sweet Jesus! Get up, Mac, _please_!" Jo shouted again, still unable to fathom that this could really be happening_._

With his left hand, Mac tried to work his fingers back inside the torn fabric of his sweatshirt to staunch the bleeding. But then another coughing fit racked him and wrenched his thoughts away from his injured arm. He shut his eyes in order to focus his remaining energy entirely on breathing. Loosening its grip, his hand slipped away from his shoulder and slid across his stomach.

Was _this_ really what had happened when he picked up the balloon at Central Park, and since had mercifully forgotten again? There was no doubt in Mac's mind that _this_ was the fate Williams had intended for him. And _this_ was the fate Pantone was so desperate to avoid that he was willing to risk their friendship to ask the terrible favor. Lastly, Mac's heart sank with the awful realization that _this_ was also the fate to which he had left his own father.

"Mac, get _away_ from that balloon!" Jo shouted again, although she knew it was already too late.

Don saw that Mac had turned his head, his bleary gaze on him now. Even at this distance, Don recognized the desolation in his eyes. _Mac had given up hope_.

"_Hey_, don't give up!" the homicide detective shouted to him. Squatting down to maintain better eye contact, Don held out a beckoning hand. "That's right, keep looking at me, Mac. Try to pull yourself towards me. C'mon, you're strong. I know you can do it!"

"We've got to find a way out of here," Jo said breathlessly, standing beside Don now. "Get some help … find a phone … call the hospital."

Straightening up, Don couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend. Although he wasn't moving any longer, the pool under his shoulder crept across the concrete floor.

"Just _look_ at him, Jo!" he said, flinging his arm out to point at Mac. He turned to look into her fearful eyes. "Mac doesn't have that kind of _time_. Unless we do something right now, he's going to bleed out."

"Oh, dear Lord." Jo clasped her hands over her mouth. "But we _can't_ go over there, Don. It's too risky." She shuddered while she reluctantly shook her head. "We'll just get infected as well. That won't help him."

Don reached out to pull her closer and wrapped her tightly in his arms. Her heart felt heavy, and a sickening feeling of despair was welling up inside her. Don felt her body quiver as she wept silently against his chest. "This is just too awful."

Chewing on his lower lip, Don leant back to stare up at the ceiling fans rotating 30 feet above their heads. Then he released Jo from his arms and took a step backwards.

"I _know_ what you're thinking," she told him miserably, having already discarded the same thought herself. "But there isn't much ventilation down here on the floor. When the balloon burst in Mac's apartment, the entire _building_ was evacuated, remember?"

She regretted her next words as soon as they flew out of her mouth, afraid that they would sway him, thereby condemning Mac. "You _know_ Mac would never ask you to put your life on the line, Don."

His hands clenched into tight fists, Don stood motionless for a few seconds, listening to Mac's ragged breathing. Unable to contain himself any longer, he yanked his scarf down from his neck. Then he wrapped it twice around his mouth and nose, before tying a tight knot behind his head.

"Don! My God, what are you doing?" Jo cried, the tears streaming down her face. "That won't _protect_ you!"

He turned around to look at her. "I'm sorry, Jo," he told her gently. "I can't just stand here and watch him die like this. He came in here to save _me_, remember?"

She took a step forward, but he put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Stay back, Jo. There's no need for both of us to run this risk. Right now, you've got to be thinking of your kids."

Pulling off his coat, he began walking resolutely across the floor towards Mac.

"Hold on, Mac," he called out. "I'm coming to help you!"

Don wafted the air above Mac's body a few times with his coat, causing him to stir and open his eyes. Startled to see Don suddenly standing above him, Mac gasped and his eyes widened in horror. Don's heart sank when he realized that Mac hadn't even heard him approach. Yet it also left him in no doubt that he had made the right decision. Mac was going downhill very fast.

Don dropped to his knees and immediately pressed two fingers against Mac's throat to find a weak – but steady – pulse. To his relief, he was fairly certain this wasn't what he had seen on the monitor in the trauma resuscitation room at Trinity General. Now his eyes suddenly caught sight of the white paint on his index finger – and smudged on Mac's throat, as well. He remembered Mac laughing heartily about it at the art gallery, and how he had been sure it was because Mac had _finally_ made his move on Jo.

Still standing twenty yards behind them, Jo held her fist to her mouth, biting down on her knuckles. _Please don't let them both die now_, she whispered to herself. _This can't really be happening_.

By raising Mac's arm and turning his wrist outward, Don found the jagged tear where the bullet had ripped through his sweatshirt. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and now a qualm of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. What on _earth_ had he been thinking, coming here like this?

In Don's mind, he was already back at the Tillery Diner, cradling Jess's head again before carrying her lifeless body to a squad car outside. After the heartache of her death, his life had spiraled out of control, and he had given in to a family weakness for finding solace in a bottle. Until last night, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live with what else his grief had made him do.

"Shit, my mind has gone blank," he admitted, unnerved by the task at hand. "What _exactly_ am I supposed to do now, Jo?"

"Don, just don't panic and you'll be fine," she reassured him. She knew it was entirely unreasonable to place any expectations on someone with a probable concussion. Yet – for Mac's sake – she couldn't risk taking the wind out of Don's sails by telling him so. "You've saved him once before, don't forget. You'll be all right."

"Yeah, but the _last_ time this happened," he exclaimed, "I was parked in front of the ER. I didn't have to do it _all_ myself, Jo!"

"Just start by taking a deep breath, okay?" She waited for him to comply and nod that he was ready. "Good, now, keep holding his arm up high. You're going to want to apply direct pressure to the wound. But first check if the bone is broken."

Resting Mac's arm against his chest, he pressed his fingertips gingerly along his upper arm.

"I can't really tell," he replied with a frustrated sigh. He cast a pleading glance down at Mac, who shook his head weakly. "Mac says no."

"Okay. Is the bullet still in there?" Jo sidled over to the guardrail to look down into the loading zone. She saw the splintered fragments of Mac's cell phone scattered beside Williams' body.

Don noticed Mac's eyes glaze over and drift sideways, before his eyelids slid shut. His breathing seemed to hesitate and stumble for a few seconds.

"Look at me, Mac! C'mon, _look_ at me," Don insisted, putting his hand on the side of his face and pulling it towards him.

Mac's eyelids flickered a few times, and his eyes slid back to watch his friend again.

"That's it, _there_ you go." Afraid to even blink, Don kept his blue eyes locked onto Mac's.

"_You're_ going to want to take a deep breath now, Mac," he warned him, as he pinched the soggy sweatshirt sleeve together. Clamping his hand tightly onto Mac's arm, he pressed his palm firmly down against the gaping wound.

With a gasp, Mac arched his back and raised a knee to stamp his foot on the floor in protest. Instinctively, he tugged at his shoulder, trying in vain to wrest his arm free of Don's iron grip. Stars circled his field of vision, and he had the strange sensation that luminous snowflakes were descending from the warehouse ceiling.

"Hey, you did the same for me, remember?" Don told him, grateful that he had been unconscious at the time. "This is going to take more than a shoelace, though," he added, realizing that he couldn't stem the blood flow with his hand alone.

Without letting go of Mac's arm, he pulled the scarf up over his face with his other hand. Mac shook his head fervently, and his fingers scrabbled to try to stop him. Ignoring his silent protests, Don wedged Mac's hand up under his armpit, while he wrapped his scarf around his arm several times to soak up the blood.

"Careful, Don," Jo called out to warn him, biting her lip. "Not too tight!"

Mac's eyelids drooped again and his head fell to the side. Don panicked when he noticed his breathing slow down as well.

"Hey, Mac! Keep looking at me!" he shouted and slapped his face briskly. Mac blinked his eyes open and looked at him again, dazed. "That's _much_ better," Don said.

"Remember to keep _breathing. _That's _all_ I want you to do," Don rambled on now, realizing that he had to keep Mac awake at all cost. "Concentrate on that, Mac. _Just_ that. Don't do anything else, okay? Leave everything else to Jo and me, okay? We'll work something out."

When he slid his finger below the scarf to check, Don still felt warm blood pulsing from the wound.

"This isn't helping, Jo!" he yelled over his shoulder. "My hands are shaking. I'm losing my grip here."

"You need to press harder until the bleeding stops. Do you have anything you can slip inside the scarf?" she suggested.

Don knew his own pockets had been emptied, but was glad to discover that the guard had overlooked an asthma inhaler in Mac's back pocket. With his fingertips, he squeezed the inhaler up between the layers of the scarf, until it lay flush against the grazed artery inside Mac's arm. Now the blood flow slowed down to a steady trickle.

"That's _better_," he called out to Jo, checking that Mac's eyes were still open. "But the scarf is already soaked through."

He ran one hand down the front of his shirt, swiftly unbuttoning each button, and yanked one sleeve off by holding onto the cuff with his teeth. Then he pulled the other sleeve inside out over his hand still over the wound. Supporting Mac's arm against his undershirt, he meticulously wrapped his shirt around the scarf.

"Still not good enough," he sighed as a bloodstain blossomed on the shirt, as well.

"Try to find a pulse higher up on his arm," Jo replied. "You should be able to press your fingertips down against the bone."

Don tried in vain to find a pressure point through the sweatshirt covering Mac's arm. Finally he reached underneath Mac's collar and slid his hand down inside his T-shirt sleeve. Starting down at the scarf, he let the tips of his fingers travel up along Mac's skin in search of a slight, telltale tremor.

Suddenly he recalled how Mac had briefly disappeared on their improvised shopping trip the evening before. Thinking for a moment that Mac had gotten fed up and rightfully abandoned him, Don had cursed his own thoughtlessness. But then to his relief, Mac had meandered back, three toothbrushes in his hand. Despite having been left homeless after a grueling day, Mac had still been willing to go along with his friend's crazy ideas.

"I think I've got it, Jo," he exclaimed, trying to get a better grip. "But my fingers keep slipping. This is so much harder than I thought."

"You're doing _fine_, Don," she replied, worried that he might give up. "You can also try just above his collarbone. It's a little trickier, though. Do you need me to come and help?"

"Stay away, Jo," Don growled, glancing up in her direction. "Don't come anywhere _near_ here. Remember you've got Ellie and Tyler to think of."

Upon hearing his words, Mac inhaled sharply and his eyes darted around in a panic, looking for her. He slid his left hand down onto the floor and started to move his feet.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, Mac," Don said quickly, putting his hand on his chest to calm him down. "She's not coming over. Jo's only trying to find a way out of here."

"Is it helping any, yet?" she asked.

Without raising his hand, Don checked his shirt again and sighed with relief. "Yes, it's stopped now."

Jo watched as he straightened his back and relaxed his shoulders for the first time.

"How are you feeling?" she asked cautiously, impressed that he could stay so focused despite his head injury.

By now, the color had drained completely from Don's face, and he kept wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his bloody hand. Under any other circumstances, _he'd_ be the one receiving urgent medical attention. Jo had been listening to his breathing, though, and so far he didn't seem to be showing any of Mac's symptoms.

"_Please_ don't ask me that," Don replied shakily. "I'm still scared to death I'm going to pass out in the middle of this."

"You've done great, Don," she replied. "Can you stay with him? I'm going to have a look around for a way out of here."

Looking down, Don suddenly realized that Mac's eyes were closed, and his breathing had slowed down once again.

"Wakey, wakey, Mac!" he cried out, feeling an unexpected sense of déjà vu. He recalled Mac trying to catch some sleep on his bedroom floor, and grumbling because Don kept waking him up. Ironically, he now had to act like the annoying one-minute alarm clock Mac had accused him of being.

"Stay with me! Don't you be going anywhere, okay? I still owe you cookies, remember?" He put his hand on Mac's cheek and turned his head. "Don't let me get away with that, you hear?"

With a gasp, Mac opened his eyes and blinked, his breath quickening again. Then he coughed several time in an unsuccessful attempt to clear his throat.

At that moment, Don saw something that made his blood freeze. His mind struggled with the notion that his efforts to save Mac's life had been in vain, after all. Now Mac's teeth were stained pink, and flecks of blood were forming in the corners of his mouth.

"You're going to be just fine, Mac," he said, trying to work some optimism into his voice. "You'll see."

Craning his neck to get more air flowing into his lungs, Mac noticed that the snow flurry he had seen before had intensified. Now hundreds of incandescent snowflakes were swirling down in a dizzying dance from the warehouse ceiling. An indistinct figure seemed to be emerging towards him through the snow, but he couldn't quite make out the face.

Don saw that Mac was squinting his eyes, apparently watching something on the bar joist ceiling above. Glancing up, he noticed for the first time the rumble that was booming right across the high-bay area.

"What's that weird noise, Jo?" he exclaimed and turned his head to try to locate the source. "It sounds like television static."

"I think that's _rain_," she answered, looking up at the ceiling herself. "Are you going to be all right on your own, Don? I'm going to try to find a way out of here."

"_I'm_ going to be fine, Jo," he replied, but didn't have the heart to tell her what he meant. "Go ahead. I'll keep an eye on Mac here."

With the crowbar in her hands now, Jo stumbled back to the catwalk and trailed her fingers along the outside wall, looking for more exits. She headed for the outermost aisle, glancing up at the vast array of plywood crates and cardboard boxes stacked high, far above her head. At the end of the aisle, her heart skipped when she saw another steel door, but tugging at the handle only revealed that it was locked, as well. It was obvious that the steel frame was too solid for a crowbar to make any difference.

Continuing down along the far wall behind the seemingly endless aisles of pallet racks, Jo overheard snatches of Don's monologue to keep Mac awake.

"… they'd both _love_ to meet you, Mac. He'd even do your tax returns, I'm sure. They've got a cabin upstate with some _great_ flyfishing. As soon as you're better, I'm taking you up there …"

She passed a larger set of doors without handles, high enough for a forklift truck to pass through. She waved her hands over her head, but the motion detector had apparently been deactivated by the lockdown. Despite a large sign "FIRE DOOR", pushing down on the crash bar only set off an alarm on the other side, but didn't release the electric lock.

"… otherwise I'll tell Sid that _you_ picked out that T-shirt for him. _Oh yes,_ I will. Don't shake your head, Mac, because I'll _do_ it, unless you're there to stop me …"

At the farthest corner of the high-bay area, Jo made a left turn and wandered back along a narrow aisle towards a side door with a small window insert providing a view of an unlit stairwell. Pulling at the handle, Jo wasn't surprised to find it locked as well. With all her might, she swung the crowbar at the window, but the tip barely scratched the security glass. Farther down the aisle, past the last pallet racks, was a large freight elevator with an old-fashioned hoistway gate. Jo inserted the crowbar and wrenched it back and forth, but the locked steel frame didn't yield.

Coming full circle, Jo hobbled back to the guardrail to peer down into the loading zone again. To her surprise, she saw water gushing in through the steel roller doors on the loading docks and washing up the concrete floor. She looked around in vain for a ladder or rope, realizing that the swirling rainwater would reach Williams' body at some point very soon.

"Our only chance is to try to get to Williams' phone," she shouted to Don. "He must still have it in his pocket."

She limped back to join them again. "How's he doing now?" she called out.

"He keeps drifting in and out of consciousness," Don replied. "I'm trying to keep him awake. I'm worried that if he passes out completely, he'll stop breathing all together."

His eyebrows furrowed as he watched her approach, showing no signs of slowing down. "Jo, stop!" he called out. "No, don't! _Hey_!" he protested loudly. "What are you doing? You _can't_ come over here."

"It's too late for that now," she replied and handed him the crowbar. "In case you haven't noticed, you've survived so far. Let me take over from here. You find a way down to Williams' phone. But hurry, the loading docks are flooding."

Jo winced as she bent her knee to sit down next to him on the floor. When her eyes fell on Mac's face, Don heard her inhale sharply.

"_Oh_, _no_," she whispered, staring at the crimson stains at the corners of his lips. A sudden dizziness washed over her, and she put a hand on the floor to steady herself. "_Please_ tell me … this … also happened in the car."

"I'm _so_ sorry, Jo," he replied, shaking his head grimly.

"I just don't _understand_!" she cried out in anguish. "Mac's been taking his antibiotics regularly. I've watched him do it. So why is this happening? _He_ should be better protected than _we_ are right now!"

It didn't make any sense. Jo had watched Mac dutifully take his pills when they ate their grilled sandwiches at lunchtime. And last night, he had done the same at the seafood restaurant, putting her and Stella's unvoiced doubts to shame.

"Actually," Don replied hesitantly, glancing briefly down at Mac, "I think he missed a dose. I know it worried him. He told me so last night." The irony was almost too unbearable for him to contemplate. It looked like oversleeping was going to kill Mac Taylor, after all.

"Oh, no, _Mac_!" she said and placed her hands on either side of his face, before reaching up to feel his forehead. "Jesus, he's got a fever, Don. He's burning up!"

Don picked up Mac's hand. "Yeah, but the rest of him is _freezing_."

Mac's breathing was now so faint that Jo resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him to keep him warm. Instead, she gathered Don's overcoat and draped it over him, recalling how tenderly he had embraced her on the High Line. 'Come here,' was all he had said to her, when he finally found a way to let go while still holding on.

Jo placed her hand on the makeshift bandages on Mac's arm to take over from Don. Resting her other hand against his cheek, she stroked his skin lightly with her fingertips. Although she knew it made no difference to him now, she smudged the blood away from his lips with her thumb. She remembered how he had smiled when she had run her fingers across his mouth, extracting the windblown strands of her hair.

Watching her, Don was reminded of his own despair when Jess was dying in his arms.

"Try to make him comfortable, Jo," he said quietly. He closed his eyes and briefly shook his head. _He's not going to make it_.

"No," she gasped, looking down to see Mac's eyes still watching them. _Does he know?_

Don bit his lip and nodded miserably, his heart about to break. _Yes, he knows_.

With a groan, he got to his feet and put his hands on his knees to steady himself for a moment. Then he walked to the guardrail and cast a contemptuous glance down at Williams lying inert in the loading zone. Furious, he turned around and threw out his hands.

"I can't accept that this bastard _got_ Mac in the end!" he exclaimed, trying to find the right words to express his frustration. "It's just not … _fair_!"

"Just try to get to that phone, Don," she replied as calmly as she could. "This isn't over yet."

"This _can't_ be happening!" he cried out, pointing at the towering floor-to-ceiling pallet racks all around them. "How can Mac die of an _infection_ inside a warehouse full of _drugs_?"

Don desperately wedged the crowbar into the nearest plywood crate and broke it open with a grunt.

"It's like dying of _thirst_ on a raft in the middle of the _ocean_!"

He reached through the splintered crate and scrabbled at the shrink-wrapped contents with his fingers.

"Don't waste your time on that, _please_, Don!" Jo cried out. "Get down to that phone _now_!"

Looking down, she realized that Mac was losing his battle to stay awake. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly, but his fingers barely moved in response.

Behind them, Don had already tossed the crowbar ahead of him down into the loading zone. Now he had climbed over the guardrail and was shimmying towards one of the railing posts. With his feet on the wall, he used his hands to lower himself down until he hung by his outstretched arms from the bottom rung. Taking a deep breath, he let go and dropped the final seven feet down to the concrete floor beside the Assistant Director.

"Look at me, Mac," Jo called out, lacing their fingers together. "C'mon, open your eyes. Stay awake for me!"

Since the day Jo and Mac first met at the Crime Lab, their physical attraction had been unmistakable. Over the past two years, their light banter had deepened into close friendship, yet he had continually frustrated her by holding back from going any further. Until today, the most affection he had ever shown her had been to squeeze her hand. On the High Line, he had finally held her snugly in his arms, making her anticipate a first kiss, at long last. Yet now she would have given anything to settle for another hand squeeze.

"I need you to _hold on_, Mac. _Please_!"

There were so many things still running through Jo's head that she had thought there'd be time to talk about. She remembered how, during a lull in their conversation at the restaurant last night, she and Stella had watched him tap his fingers absently to the jazz music. Both knew him well enough to realize that he so rarely let go and forgot himself like this. Smiling to each other, they had taken it as a compliment to their company, and at that moment Jo realized there was something she needed to tell him.

Between rapid, gasping breaths, Mac's eyelids opened very slightly, and he fought to keep his eyes focused on her. Bending down, Jo cradled his head between her hands and put her forehead against his brow, trying somehow to cool his fever. Then she whispered three tiny words in his ear, and felt his pulse quicken briefly. _He had heard her._

Although his eyes were still open, Mac's breathing had become very labored, and Jo could feel his pulse in his throat slow down, as well. Exhausted by his struggle and blood loss, his breath eventually caught in his throat. Lacking the strength to inhale, his body twitched under Don's coat, and his fingers clenched and unfurled slowly.

"Don't go. I _need_ you to stay," Jo pleaded, tears streaming down her face. "_Please_, Mac, I can't go on without you."

Instinctively, she took a deep breath, tilted his head back, pinched his nose and exhaled deeply into his mouth. Without letting go, she turned her head and watched his chest rise and fall unevenly. Feeling him exhale on her cheek, she began counting in her head.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

Slipping her fingertips alongside his throat, she realized she was being rewarded with a quickening pulse. Jo took another deep breath and put her lips against his again.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

His eyelids fluttered open, and she managed to catch and hold his gaze. In his eyes, she saw the realization that – while she was giving him the kiss of life – he was breathing death into her. His last conscious act was to turn his head away from her, not wanting her to risk her life like this. With a gasp, she pulled his head back and took another deep breath.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

Jo continued mechanically, ignoring the metallic taste in her mouth that made her stomach turn. While her heart pounded furiously to gives her the strength to continue, her mind was screaming at her that they were both going to die.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

Now Mac had passed out completely, and blood was gathering at the back of his throat. Willing herself to become a machine, Jo cleared her mind of all thought to focus entirely the mechanics of breathing for him.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

Although she kept pushing it away, the terrible thought that she couldn't go on like this forever intruded on her mind. She knew she couldn't kid herself - at some point her own strength would be exhausted, and she'd be unable to continue. In the end, _she_ would the one to cast Mac adrift.

_One - _one thousand_ – two – _one thousand_ – three – _one thousand_ – four - _one thousand_ – five – _one thousand.

"Don?" she called out desperately. "Don! Where _are_ you? What's going on? Are you okay?"

Apart from the rain drumming on the tiled roof above, silence now reigned inside the cavernous high-bay storage area.

"_Please_ don't leave me alone here!"

* * *

><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 12 – "The Crucifix"<strong> Jo discovers the significance of Mac's loss

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><p>Yikes, how can this story <em>possibly<em> end well? Well, if you're asking yourself this, you've probably forgotten something.


	12. The Crucifix

**Author's note: **Thank you for your very kind reviews of the previous chapter - I'm always so happy to get feedback from you!

This chapter involves a very large amount of cash, which you _might_ possibly have forgotten about – ? The devil is in the details, folks!

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><p><strong>Chapter 12 – "The Crucifix"<strong>

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><p>Mac Taylor was with Henry Pantone now.<p>

It was just past midnight on Good Friday. Outside Trinity General, wailing ambulance sirens and honking horns served as vibrant reminders of a city that never slept. Inside the isolation ward, however, only a few muted voices were heard as the night staff came on duty. Nurses had respectfully dimmed most of the lights, leaving their only patient lying under a sheet in the shadows.

In the hallway outside his room, Jo had risen from her wheelchair and was crying against Sid's shoulder. At her side, Stella had slipped her arm around Jo's waist to help support her bandaged knee. Jo realized that her tears were merely a delayed fight-or-flight response to the traumatic events of the day. Yet she longed for them to lower her pulse and flush out the stress hormones still surging through her veins.

"You really should go home and get some rest," Sid told her gently, his arm tightening around her shoulder. "There's nothing more you can do for him now."

In her mind, Jo knew Pantone's yearlong friendship was the closest Mac had to a family, but in her heart she felt Mac rightfully belonged with _her_ right now. Watching the two men inside the room, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy towards the older man. There was still so much Mac had never shared with her, including any mention of that terrible day on which he and Pantone had first met.

Lost in his own thoughts, Pantone was staring silently down at Mac, his hands curled into tight fists. After a few minutes, he plucked his glasses off his face and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. When he glanced over at the doorway, they saw that his naked eyes were red-rimmed with grief. Putting his glasses back on, he recognized the two women watching him and tried to compose himself.

"Detectives Danville and Bonasera," he addressed them formally, yet his burning cheeks betrayed his humiliation. "I'm sorry, I … I really don't know … what to say," he began. "Mac tried to warn me about Jerry, but I just wouldn't listen to him. I've had too much else on my mind lately."

Unable to find the right words to respond, Jo merely nodded. She knew from Mac that the Director was seriously ill with cancer, but she didn't want to betray his confidence, even now. Taking a deep breath, she wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"My career is over," he added awkwardly and glanced down at his feet. "I'll be suspended while this is being investigated, of course. The Secretary is sending someone up from DC to take over from Monday. My judgment will be questioned – and rightfully so. I know it's no excuse, but I -" his voice caught briefly in his throat, "- _just_ didn't see this coming."

Jo put her hand on his sleeve. "I'm sure there'll be no hard feelings from Mac," she offered as consolation. "He'd never blame _you_ for what happened."

Pantone nodded gratefully before sighing. "You know, I've listened to those two boys gripe about each other for _years_. I never really took it very seriously. Today I realize it was a fatal mistake, one for which I'll never forgive myself."

"_Please_ just tell us that it's over now," Stella exclaimed. "I don't think any of us can bear the thought of any more balloons."

"Well, we've found none at the warehouse – or any other premises we know that Jerry had access to. It appears that he erased the DNA record from our databases, so we're still unclear as to how much more of the pathogen could be out there. I know it's not the guarantee you're looking for, but I really don't want to be making empty promises to you."

"Thank you, all the same," Jo answered. "We appreciate your candor. This must all be very difficult for you."

Instead of replying, Pantone stared unblinking at her for a moment. Realizing that there was something else on his mind, they waited for him to continue.

"This is classified information, of course," he finally added. "But I think you should know that we still have no clue as to Jerry's possible motive. Am I correct in assuming that you don't know, either?"

Jo shook her head sadly. "It came as a total shock to all of us, including Mac," she replied. "I know the two of them spoke at length at the warehouse, but I couldn't hear what they were saying."

"Well, we're also having a hard time figuring out how Jerry managed this on his own. So I've decided to post three of my agents here on the ward, just in case. I just have this … feeling … that this might not be over yet." He pointed over his shoulder. "Right now, my main priority is to keep _him_ safe for as long as I possibly can."

Jo felt her stomach clench in alarm. "Are you suggesting Williams may have had accomplices_ inside DHS_?" she gasped.

Pantone's face became guarded and his eyes darted towards the nurses' station. "You never heard me say anything like that, Detective Danville."

Excusing himself curtly, he walked a few steps down the hall before turning around. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "While I'm still in charge, that is?"

"His watch," Stella suddenly remembered. "Please," she called out to him, "could you find out what happened to his watch? It used to be his father's."

Inside the room, the only movements were the tracings on the cardiac monitor and Mac's shallow breaths under an oxygen mask. Even in the dim light, there was no question that the day had taken its toll on him. Despite the transfusions, he had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked anemic, nearly the same shade as the sheet drawn up around his midriff.

After the vascular surgery, a Gore-Tex sleeve had been fitted onto his arm and a thick gauze dressing taped to the side of his chest. Since the bed was elevated to ease his breathing, the chest tube had been inserted between his lower ribs this time. Stella winced when she saw it, realizing how much it would bother him once he regained consciousness.

A nurse carrying a clipboard entered to check on the cannulae in his hands and the A-line in his wrist. She rested her hand on his bare shoulder as she reached up to adjust the IV pump above his head. Clipping on his glasses, Sid stepped up beside her to get a better view of the waveform readings on the heart monitor.

Jo found herself staring at a jagged, white scar between the adhesive pads dotted across his chest. He had never mentioned it to her, but she guessed that the injury predated his career in the NYPD. Her heart sank at the realization that there was still so much that she didn't know about him. How could Mac say that _she_ was closest to him, when she was surrounded by people who knew him so much better?

"Oh, Mac," she sighed and wrapped her fingers around his.

Stella bent down to take a closer look at his face. "Is this normal?" she asked the nurse in a hushed voice. "Is he really supposed to be breathing like this?"

"Yes, he's doing fine," the woman reassured her. "We've been able to take him off the ventilator, but he doesn't have full capacity in his right lung yet."

Noticing the flush on his cheeks beneath the mask, Jo touched his forehead lightly. "But why does he still have a fever?" she asked nervously. "Are the antibiotics not working, after all?"

"That's not an infection, it's an _inflammation_," the nurse explained, shaking her head. "It's his immune system reacting to the presence of spores in his lungs. Fortunately for him, it's the exact same anthrax strain as before. That means his medication is keeping the bacterial infection at bay, even if – as you say – he apparently missed a dose."

"What about Detective Flack?" Stella asked, straightening up again. "We haven't been able to see him yet. Do you know if he will be all right?"

"They're still keeping him down in the ICU for observation, in case he shows symptoms of second impact syndrome. Although he's not infected either, Director Pantone has requested he be brought up here afterwards."

Stella and Jo exchanged worried glances, reminded of Pantone's ominous parting words.

"Why don't you go home now?" the nurse suggested to Jo, whose face was drawn with exhaustion. "I promise you Dr. Hendricks will call you as soon as Detective Taylor wakes up."

As they walked out through the sliding entrance doors, a nocturnal breeze began tugging briskly at Jo's clothing. Sid quickly draped his coat around her shoulders, while Stella sprinted across the sidewalk to hail a cab. Earlier in the evening, Stella had phoned around frantically, before finally locating Ellie on a sleepover at a classmate's. Fortunately, the parents had immediately offered to keep her for the weekend to allow Jo time to recover.

Already frustrated with her underarm crutches, Jo accepted Stella's arm instead as she hobbled from the taxi to her building. Then she summoned every last ounce of her strength not to collapse inside the elevator. Once inside her apartment, though, she hung up Sid's coat and slid down the wall to sit on the floor by her front door.

"So close and yet so far," she groaned, inadvertently echoing Mac's exact sentiment from the previous evening.

Stella brought a kitchen chair into the bathroom and filled the sink with swirling hot water. In the bedroom, she retrieved Jo's pajamas from under her pillow and placed them under a thick towel on the chair. While Jo washed up and changed, she quickly made them both a mug of steaming green tea in the kitchen.

Still looking somewhat bleary-eyed, Jo emerged from the bathroom in her pajamas, and Stella helped her to her bedroom. Jo peeled back the bedspread and slipped between the cool sheets with a sigh of relief. Meanwhile, Stella put her mug on the night table and switched on a little wall light in the hallway outside.

"Drink some tea and try to get some sleep," she said soothingly. "I'll stay here with you as long as you like." She pointed to an armchair across the room from the bed.

With the teacup against her lips now, Jo nodded gratefully and patted the other side of the double bed. Sitting down next to her, Stella watched as Jo finished her tea and tried to get comfortable underneath the covers. Finally, Jo settled on her side with a pillow tucked between her knees. Stella wedged a cushion behind her back and sat listening to Jo's rapid breaths slow down to an easier pace.

Half an hour later, Jo suddenly cried out in alarm, and Stella realized she had in fact dozed off herself.

"Are you _okay_, Jo?" she gasped, still a little dazed. She saw Jo sitting up rigidly, her arms wrapped tightly around her pillow now. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, I wasn't asleep yet," Jo replied, staring straight ahead into the semi-darkness. "I just keep seeing everything happen again and again. It was just too awful." She fought to keep her voice from breaking. "Mac just … stopped _breathing_, Stella. I was _so_ sure he was going to … _die_ … in my arms."

"But he's going to be all right now, and so is Flack," Stella said and got up to kneel on the mattress beside Jo. "We have to believe what the doctors tell us, Jo," she added as she hugged her and patted her lightly on the back.

"I know, I _know_." Behind Stella's back, Jo blinked several times, setting the quivering tears in her eyes free to roll down over her cheeks. "I don't understand why I'm still so upset."

"Maybe you want to talk it through with me?" Stella suggested. She sat back down again and switched on the lamp on the nightstand. "Tell me what happened? Would that help?"

Once Jo had gathered her thoughts, she was startled at how many details were still crystal clear in her mind. Now she was no longer sitting snugly in her bed, a pillow clasped to her chest, but was kneeling on the cold concrete floor, cradling Mac's head with her hands. Her single most vivid memory was her sheer panic during the silence that followed Don's disappearance down into the loading zone.

"_Please_ don't leave me alone here!"

At that moment, there had been an unearthly screeching noise as all six steel roller doors on the loading docks began to rise at once. Now Jo could hear the rain crashing down on the street outside, and a blast of ice-cold wind burst through the warehouse aisles. Through the slowly growing gaps, she saw the feet of a dozen people standing ankle-deep in puddles on the sidewalk. As it turned out, an alarm triggered by the overflowing rainwater had finally alerted Homeland Security to the presence of a body down in the loading zone.

"Up here! … EMS, now!" Jo shouted down to them between frantic breaths.

Backlit by the many flashing emergency lights outside, Pantone stood transfixed with his eyes riveted to the floor ahead of him. Upon hearing Jo's voice, he slowly raised his head, and she saw the look of helpless incomprehension in his eyes. Then four soaking wet paramedics emerged from the torrential downpour behind him. While two of them ran straight ahead into the loading zone, two veered left and headed towards the stairwell.

"Wait! Hazmat … anthrax!" she gasped before resuming her counting.

The stunned paramedics skidded to a halt and turned around, shaking their heads reluctantly. They hadn't arrived equipped for working with a class A biohazard emergency. Looking expectantly at Pantone now, they awaited revised orders from their incident commander. Yet the Director's face was momentarily blank.

"The man in his undershirt," Jo added and pointed blindly down towards the loading zone. "He's been exposed, too!"

Snapping out of his daze, Pantone spun around and stormed into the rain to address the firefighters pumping the waterlogged loading berths outside. Jo heard him bark a series of commands, and a minute later full-face respirator masks were handed to each of the paramedics.

As soon as the air cylinders were strapped to their backs, two of them rushed up the stairs and dropped to the floor beside Jo and Mac. With both hands, one of them tilted Mac's head back and inserted a short plastic tube into his mouth to clear his airway. Placing a bag valve mask over it, he watched Mac's chest rise and fall unevenly as he squeezed it.

The other medic was already cutting up through the front of Mac's sweatshirt towards his collar. She peeled the wet fabric aside and found what she was looking for – a small, circular hole down between his armpit and shoulder blade. She covered the bullet wound with her gloved hand before swiftly taping three sides of a Vaseline dressing over it.

Jo watched dumbfounded as the woman then placed her hand just below Mac's collarbone and jabbed a long needle between his ribs. As it entered his chest, a small 'pop' was followed by a hiss of air. She carefully removed the needle again, leaving behind a red-tipped catheter that allowed air trapped by the bullet wound to escape. While Mac's breathing began to ease up and deepen under the mask, they started an IV of saline solution and transferred him onto a stretcher.

Now another medic appeared beside Jo and grabbed her shoulders, turning her around to face him. He noted the smear of blood across her mouth, and the next minute she was lying on her back, an oxygen mask strapped over her face. While checking her pulse, he placed his other hand on her forehead and shone a penlight into her eyes. Recovering herself quickly, Jo pulled off the mask and rolled to her side to get back on her feet.

"Leave me alone, I'm all right. It's not _my_ blood!" she groaned and sank down to the floor, clutching her thigh. "Damn it, my knee!"

Now she lay awkwardly on her stomach while the paramedic slit up through her trouser leg to take a closer look at her injuries. She winced as his gloved fingers probed the tender buckshot wounds, before taping a dressing across the back of her thigh and knee. Yanking the oxygen mask off again, she tried to get up to follow the man being carried away on the stretcher.

"Wait for me, _please_!"

Squatting down before her, the medic put a restraining hand on her shoulder and patiently strapped her mask back on. By waving his hand in circles above his head, he signaled for assistance from the other emergency responders down below. Then he walked to a safe distance, removed the respirator mask from his own face, and fished a phone from his pocket.

"Be advised that we're bringing in three patients with possible inhalation anthrax exposure," he explained calmly. "The first is an unresponsive male, arterial laceration on upper arm, GSW to chest, unilateral BV respiration followed by decompression, elevated temp, possible upper respiratory infection."

Two firefighters emerged from the stairwell and helped Jo onto her feet. With her arms slung around their shoulders, she was carried in a fourhanded seat down the stairs to the loading zone.

"The second is an alert female –" the paramedic continued, racing down the steps behind them, "- GSW to knee, elevated pulse, BP 130/80, rapid, shallow RR, normal temp."

Jo gasped when she caught a glimpse of Don lying unconscious on a backboard, his head immobilized by straps and a neck brace. Four firefighters had lifted him up and were about to carry him to one of the ambulances waiting outside. Behind her, the paramedic listened to his colleagues' assessment of his vitals before repeating their words into his cell phone.

"The third is an unconscious male … head trauma, responsive to pain … GCS 8, PEARL … labored breathing, normal temp."

Her head spinning now, Jo distantly heard Pantone shouting something into his phone about dispatching decontamination and environmental sampling teams. Then everything began to feel unreal to her, and her grip on the firefighters' shoulders loosened as they ran out into the freezing rain. The last thing she remembered before passing out was tumbling backwards onto the narrow gurney inside the ambulance. An hour later, she woke up in the ER at Trinity General to find Stella and Sid peering anxiously down into her face.

And now Stella was sitting beside her on the bed, the same worried expression on her face, while she listened to her account of what had happened.

"_Oh_, _Jo_," Stella sighed empathetically, "how _awful_! No wonder your mind won't give you any peace. But everything is okay now, keep telling yourself that. It's going to be all right."

"_Now_ I understand why I'm still so upset, Stella," Jo suddenly realized. "I should have gone straight to Mac as soon as I saw he was in trouble. I'll never forgive myself for hesitating," she added in an anguished whisper.

"Hey, hey," Stella replied gently, "of course you were thinking of Ellie and Tyler first. You had no choice, you're their _mother_. Mac wouldn't expect anything else from you. I can only hope that I'll think exactly like you when I'm a mother myself."

"Yes," Jo sighed miserably, "but then I pushed my children right out of my mind in order to save him. I'm obviously a terrible mother," she added, turning to look Stella in the eyes before burying her face in her hands. "I've let everyone I care about down today."

"Don't think that, even for a _second_," Stella said sternly, grabbing hold of her shoulders. "To me, it sounds like all three of you were caught up in an impossible bind. You all did the _only_ thing you could. Don't worry if it takes time before it feels right to you, but you'll be okay in the end, I promise. You'll all be fine, Jo."

Stella gently pulled Jo's hands away from her face and raised her chin.

"I'm here in New York because _you_ called me, remember?" she told her with a smile. "At the time, I truly believed I was coming to pull the plug on Mac. I've since discovered that _you're_ his life support. And I mean that _literally_, Jo."

Jo smiled weakly and wiped the tears from her face.

"I'm ashamed that I spoke so harshly to you about not leaving Mac," Stella added. "I just wanted make sure you wouldn't hurt him the way I did. But it's obvious that you _love_ him, Jo, risking your life like that. Mac will realize that, too. You have no reason to doubt yourself."

"Thanks, Stella." Jo nodded and sighed wearily. "It means a lot to hear that from you."

The next morning Jo woke up to discover Stella still asleep, lying fully clothed on the bed beside her. As quietly as she could, Jo slipped out from under the covers and draped the bedspread over her, before hobbling out to the bathroom to change the dressing on her knee. She suddenly realized that her little compact mirror was still in her purse on her desk back at the Crime Lab. To see her injuries properly, she had to get up on the chair and turn around to look at her leg in the mirror above the sink.

"I don't _believe_ this," she muttered, rolling her eyes in frustration. "This is so embarrassing."

When she emerged from the bathroom again, she found Stella already stirring a bowlful of eggs, milk, cinnamon and orange zest in the kitchen. While she helped Stella set the table for breakfast, Jo phoned Ellie to reassure her that she was all right. Pouring maple syrup over her French toast, she washed down her medication with a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

"Thanks for staying here with me, Stella." She sighed gratefully and leaned back in her chair. "I feel so much better today."

"I'm glad to hear that," Stella replied with a smile. "Now we just have to wait for Hendricks to call."

"It was good of you to remember Mac's watch," Jo added, glancing down at her own. "I hadn't realized it was his father's."

"For some reason, Mac's been thinking about his father a lot lately," Stella replied thoughtfully. "I can't quite figure out why, but I know it's been getting him down."

"Why, what happened to his father?" Jo asked, realizing that Mac had never mentioned him to her.

"He died of lung cancer many years ago," Stella said. "Apparently he suffered greatly towards the end. He even asked Mac to end it for him. It's a terrible request to have to turn down."

Listening to her solemn words, Jo realized that Stella might be able to clear something up for her.

"On our way to the warehouse, we passed a church," she told her, "and Mac realized he had lost something else at Trinity."

She pointed down at her collarbone, and Stella nodded her understanding.

"I think it actually worried him more than he'd admit," she added. "I was thinking of buying him a new pendant today. You know, to protect him. After what happened yesterday, I wouldn't want him to be without. Do you know why it was so important to him, Stella?"

"I think it's a lovely idea, Jo," Stella replied, "but I think you should hear about the crucifix from _him_. It's about time he confided in you."

As they cleared off the table and stacked the dishes by the sink, Stella pointed across the hall towards Jo's guest room. "You're going to need some help moving those boxes out of there."

"What?" Jo was surprised. "You're … moving in?"

Stella laughed and shook her head. "No, but I know someone who _is_. He can't really be expected to sleep on the floor any longer, can he?"

While Stella busied herself with clearing out the guest room, Jo spent most of the morning and early afternoon sitting with her leg up on the settee in the living room. To keep her cell phone free for Hendricks' call, she took all her other calls on her landline. Apart from repeated offers of assistance from Tyler and her mother, she received profuse medical assurances from Sid, equal measures of comfort and outrage from Lindsay and Danny, and even an endearingly timid offer of support from Adam.

Then Deputy Commissioner Roberts phoned to express his sympathy and well wishes, on behalf of both the NYPD and DHS Commissioners. There was no doubt that the political fall-out of what had happened would redefine future inter-agency collaboration. Already now the NYPD was pushing the Mayor for a renegotiation of the CIMS protocol.

It was not until late afternoon, when she and Stella had just walked out of the Fifth Avenue jewelry store, that Hendricks finally called. Arriving at the isolation ward at Trinity General, they saw the doctor standing by the nurses' station, in deep conversation with two senior residents. A nurse pointed over his shoulder, and he turned around to greet the two women with a reassuringly broad smile.

"I see you brought his health care agent with you again, Detective Danville," he said, shaking their hands in turn. "I hope you realize it wasn't necessary this time. Detective Taylor is doing surprisingly well and will be back on his feet soon. He's very good for our statistics here at Trinity, you know. He's just doubled our number of anthrax survivors."

They began walking slowly down the corridor together, allowing Jo to set the pace on her crutches.

"Although he wasn't actually infected," he continued, "he does have an unprecedented high concentration of spores in his lungs, right now. So his fever is a healthy sign, since it means his immune system is working on expelling them."

"Actually," he continued, "his symptoms are not unlike those of dust pneumonia, which was widespread during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Recently, this type of pneumonia had resurfaced in connection with the cinnamon challenge on YouTube. _Kids_," he added, rolling his eyes, "go figure."

At the mention of pneumonia, Stella sighed and her eyes briefly met Jo's. "Oh, Mac's so going to _love_ that part."

"We were able to repair the artery in his arm by grafting a vein from his leg," Hendricks explained. "Normally, we'd expect concomitant nerve damage, but he was lucky in that respect, too. The wound to his chest was also fairly shallow, since the bullet lost velocity passing through his arm. His lung should re-expand itself completely within a few days."

Jo and Stella exchanged glances again, as they passed Pantone's three surly agents in the hallway, already looking bored with their assignment.

"With proper medical attention and lots of rest, I'd say we're looking at full recovery within four to five weeks," Hendricks concluded as they arrived outside Mac's room. "We'll _try_ to keep him here a week or two, this time around. I understand he's homeless at the moment, is that right?"

"Don't worry," Stella reassured him with a smile, "we've picked out a nice shelter for him."

Inside the room, a nurse stood with her back to them, talking to Mac as she exchanged the IV bags above his head. A paper cup with crushed ice stood on his bedside table, next to his father's watch.

"He's coming out of pretty heavy sedation," Hendricks added, while they waited for the nurse to finish, "but I know he'll be happy to see you. He won't be saying very much just yet, since the intubation lacerated his throat again, I'm afraid. But he knows you and Detective Flack risked your lives to save him. He was especially upset to hear that you had been shot in the knee."

Turning his back to the room, Hendricks lowered his voice. "I'm just a _little_ concerned about his mental state. You see, he was rather shocked when I told him that Henry visited him yesterday. For some reason, he seemed to think he was _dead_."

Mac didn't turn his head, but Jo and Stella saw his half-open eyes following them as they entered his room. Now he wore a short-sleeved hospital gown and had a nasal cannula under his nose, instead of the oxygen mask.

"Hi, there, Mac," Stella said, smiling down at him. "It's good to see you're awake."

Obviously frustrated, he blinked several times to focus his eyes and keep them from drifting. He raised his left hand unsteadily and watched as he slowly flexed his fingers. With a grimace, he then arched his back, trying in vain to get comfortable in the bed.

"Are you in pain?" Jo asked, lacing her fingers through his.

Shaking his head, he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, sitting down in the chair by his bed.

Mac let go of her hand and drew a horizontal loop in the air with his finger.

"A little light-headed, huh?" Stella smiled.

He leaned back into the pillow and nodded with a sigh. Then he looked glumly down at the gauze dressing below his armpit and the dark-blue sleeve on his upper arm. When he caught sight of the chest tube under the sheet, he flared his nostrils and frowned.

Jo stood up to put her hand on his forehead. "Sheesh, that's quite a fever, Mac." She sighed as she sat back down. "Still, Hendricks says it's a good sign."

"Let me give you some ice," Stella said, slipping a small sliver into his mouth.

"How much do you remember this time around?" Jo asked him, while he savored the ice.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to recollect the events prior to waking up in hospital. Staring up at the ceiling, he blinked several times before wincing. _Too much_. With a look of deep concern, he pointed down at Jo's knee.

"I'm all right, really," she reassured him. "It's just a very annoying, _unladylike_ place to get shot," she huffed, indicating the back of her knee.

For the first time, the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Jo recognized the unspoken question expressed by his raised eyebrows.

"No, I'm not telling you _why_," she laughed, a little embarrassed. "You're the head of the Crime Lab. Work it out yourself."

Still smiling, he sketched a rectangle in the air with his finger.

"Full points for guessing, Mac," she sighed and turned his face to look at the bruise on his jaw. "Your head obviously survived being slugged by Williams."

He reached up to tap the side of his head, looking at both of them in anticipation of an update on his friend.

"You mean Don?" Jo asked. "He's much better now. In fact, they'll be moving him up here to keep you company. Apparently, he was doing just fine, at least until I asked him to jump down into the loading zone," she added with another sigh. "That _really_ rattled his poor brain."

Mac nodded, clearly pleased to hear that Don would be okay. With his finger, he drew two large circles in front of his eyes and raised an enquiring eyebrow again.

"Pantone? Oh, he's just fine," Jo replied, not quite truthfully. There was no need to mention the Director's hunch to Mac just yet. "He's going to be suspended, though," she added gently. "Apparently, Homeland Security need someone to blame for what happened."

Upon hearing her words, Mac's face fell and his mouth dropped open. He clenched his fist and slammed it down on the side rail in frustration.

Unable to hide her concern any longer, Jo leaned towards him. "Mac, Hendricks says you thought Pantone was _dead_. Where on _earth_ did you get that idea from?"

Mac jabbed two fingers in the direction of his right eye before looking expectantly at Jo. Stella gasped in alarm at his sudden gesture, but Jo immediately knew whom he meant.

"_Williams_ told you that?" she asked. "At the warehouse? He was obviously just messing with your mind."

Looking skeptical, Mac slowly shook his head. He sighed, unable to share the details of his conversation with Williams.

"Well, did he say _who_ was supposed to have killed him?" she asked.

Mac hesitated for a moment before putting his finger on his chest.

"What!" Jo exclaimed and jumped to her feet. "I've never heard anything so farfetched in my entire life!" she fumed, sitting back down again. "Is _that_ supposed to be his motive for trying to kill you with those balloons? It doesn't make any _sense_! Pantone isn't even _dead_. Williams' mind was obviously so unhinged, it snapped right off!"

Suddenly Jo shared Hendricks' anxiety about Mac's mental health. "How could you possibly _believe_ Williams that Pantone was dead?" she asked him. "You once told me that he reminds you of your father. _And_ that he's seriously ill with cancer now. So why on earth should you want to kill him?"

Stella stared openmouthed at Jo, the realization finally dawning on her. "Oh no, Mac," she whispered, her eyes widening. "Is Pantone actually _terminally_ ill?"

Mac looked forlorn, just like the first time they had spoken about his father.

"And when you met Pantone that Saturday," Jo added, "did he … ask you to end it for him, too? Is _that_ what's been bothering you?"

He nodded reluctantly, no longer entirely certain of what had happened at the sports bar. They looked at each other in silence for a few minutes, trying to understand Williams' motive in light of the new information.

"You know what, whatever way you look at it, it _still_ doesn't make any sense," Stella finally concluded, shaking her head. "Why do I get this feeling that there is a piece of the puzzle still missing? We must be overlooking something important here."

Jo nodded, looking thoughtful. "Well, there was _something_ at the Central Park crime scene that didn't make sense at the time," she conceded. "But so much has happened since then, I can't for the life of me remember what it was."

Her eyes turned to Mac, who shrugged helplessly, his mind still blank about that fateful day. Smiling, she reached out and took hold of his hand.

"It's okay, Mac," she reassured him. "We'll work it out sooner or later. There's no need to worry about that right now. You just need to get well."

Watching them, Stella decided it was time for her to leave.

"I'm just going down to check on Flack," she explained nonchalantly, "I heard his sister was coming to see him," she added as she left the room, unsure if they were even listening.

"What …" Mac asked Jo, his voice barely audible. "What … were you …" he repeated in a whisper, before pausing to catch his breath, "… _thinking_?"

"What was I thinking, Mac?" Jo smiled and put her hand on his cheek. "Well, if you _really_ want to know, I'll tell you. I think you can handle the truth. Ever since the moment I first met you at the Crime Lab," she told him, "I've wondered what it would be like to … _kiss_ you."

She brushed her thumb along his mouth, wiping away a drop of water.

"I wanted to know what your lips would taste like ..." she admitted.

Mac's brow creased and he looked dismayed, making her smile.

"… and what I'd do to you with my hands, if we kissed," she added with a laugh. "Who'd ever have guessed I'd be _pinching_ your _nose_?"

"Come here," he said hoarsely and reached up to brush her hair behind her ear. Caressing her cheek with his fingertips, he ran his thumb across her lips, like she had just done with him. Her smile broadened as she caught his thumb between her teeth, making him raise an eyebrow.

His hand slid around to the nape of her neck, and his green-blue eyes held her gaze as he pulled her closer. Against her will, the nightmarish memories from the warehouse resurfaced in her mind. Turning her head, she brushed her nose and lips lightly against his, grateful to feel his steady breathing on her face again.

Now her cheek was nestled against his feverish skin, and she was careful not to rub against the cannula under his nostrils. She gasped when she felt the heat of his breath pulsate against her ear. "_I love you, too_, _Jo_," he whispered softly, and for a fleeting moment the room spun and disappeared around them.

"I'll never, _ever_ take your breathing for granted again," she vowed, when she finally raised her head and straightened her back.

"Neither will I," he promised her with a warm smile. Looking around him, his eyes caught sight of the watch lying on table, for the first time.

"Stella told me it was your father's," Jo said, handing it to him. "She got Pantone to get it back for you."

He nodded gratefully and ran his fingertips over its dial. Guessing correctly that it had been decontaminated with chlorine dioxide gas, he held it to his ear to check if it was still in working order. When he heard its tiny gears and levers still ticking away steadily, he carefully put it back on the table.

"I noticed you lost something else, Mac," Jo said gently and slid her hand inside his. When she slipped out of his grasp again, he realized she had left something behind on the palm of his hand.

His mouth open in surprise, he held the necklace up to take a closer look at the details on the tiny crucifix. Without taking his eyes off the pendant, his face clouded for a moment and he sighed. Then his eyes slid over to hers, and she saw him grapple with what to say to her. Now she suddenly wondered if buying it had been the right thing to do, after all.

"It's all right if you don't want to talk about it, Mac," she added quickly, cursing an obviously inappropriate impulse. "I understand completely."

"But I _do_," he replied, and his eyes let her know he really meant it.

He looked down, trying to work out how to sum up his past for her, using as few words as possible.

"It was a wedding present," he finally began. Glancing up at her, he quickly turned his eyes away again to stare at the window.

"From me," he continued and paused while he tried to steady his voice.

"_That_ morning, the clasp broke." He heaved a deep sigh as he thought back to the day his life fell apart. "I found it by the sink."

"I've worn it ever since," he added, before lowering his voice to a whisper. "To remind me of what _could have been_."

"_Oh, Mac_," she whispered back, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. Then she sat in silence for a while, holding tightly onto his hand while he fell asleep. He didn't stir when she quietly slipped out of his room an hour later.

Early the next morning, Mac woke up with a start when a nurse flicked open the blinds, instantly bathing his room in radiant sunlight. After several weeks of stormy weather, the brightness was completely unfamiliar to him. In fact, for a moment he thought he had fallen asleep at his desk and had been woken up by the cleaning woman. Opening his eyes, it took him a minute to remember that he was lying in a hospital bed.

"Christ!" he groaned, blinking several times to get his bearings. "What … _day_ is it?"

"Tomorrow's Easter Sunday," the nurse explained cheerfully. "But you already seem to know that," she added, pointing down at his left hand lying on the sheet.

Raising his hand, he was glad to see the necklace with the little crucifix still looped around his fingers. He rubbed his face wearily and watched the nurse leave the room again. He tried in vain to work out how long he had been in hospital, but his drowsy mind felt like a tumble drier, jumbling up his memories. To focus his thoughts, he closed his eyes and felt himself gradually drift off to sleep again instead.

"Rise and shine, Mac!" a voice behind his right shoulder suddenly called out. "The rest of us aren't getting any _younger_ here, you know."

Mac's eyes flew open and slid apprehensively to the right. Don was sitting in the chair beside his bed, dressed in light-blue scrubs. Despite the dark circles under his bleary eyes, he still had a smile on his face.

"You look just … _terrible_," Mac exclaimed, staring at the row of surgical staples in a large shaved patch on the side of his head. "That must really sting," he said, referring mainly to the younger man's pride.

"Thanks, Mac," Don replied dryly. "You're not exactly eye candy yourself, you know."

"I'm sorry, Don," he sighed. "I can't tell you how much …" He paused, looking for the right words.

"Look, when I said I'd save your life a hundred times over," Don interrupted with a grin, "I didn't mean it _literally_."

"It was really stupid of me, I know," Mac admitted, annoyed at himself. "I completely lost track of that damned balloon."

"No, what _I_ did was stupid, going in there in the first place," he replied. "I'm just so glad I didn't have to _kiss_ you."

"You know what? That makes two of us." Mac smiled and sank back into his pillow. "What are you doing up so early anyway? You look really tired."

"I can't sleep, Mac."

"Try hot milk, Don."

"That won't help," Don answered sourly. "A nurse wakes me every two hours to ask me my name."

Mac slid his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. "So there's justice in the world after all," he sighed. "I was really beginning to wonder."

Ignoring him, Don bent down to pick up two large brown grocery bags by his feet. He stood up and held them in his outstretched arms high above Mac's bed.

"My sister lent me her phone," he explained, "and I was able to get ahold of _this_. C'mon, Mac, _guess_ what's in these bags."

Realizing that he was serious, Mac shook his head. "I give up," he replied unenthusiastically. "Those cookies you keep going on about?"

Instead of replying, Don grabbed the bottom of each bag, flipped them over and shook out their content. If he had anticipated that it would all drop neatly down into Mac's lap, he couldn't have been more mistaken. Several hundred green dollar bills rained down over Mac's bed and most of the room, bearing a closer resemblance to the snowstorm-like flurry of a tickertape parade, than an elegant sprinkle of wedding confetti.

"So what do you think, huh?" Don asked eagerly, entirely unfazed by the overwhelming mess. "It's just shy of ten grand."

"Christ Almighty," Mac muttered when he had recovered from the shock. "You robbed a bank." Scooping up a handful of banknotes that had landed by his left hand, he held them up to check that they weren't counterfeit. "I always knew you were rotten to the core, Don Flack Jr."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll remember that."

"I've known you for _how_ many years now?" Mac complained while brushing the dark green avalanche down from his arms and shoulders. "Why is it I still have no clue _whatsoever_ as to what you're about to do?"

"Go ahead," Don coaxed him with a grin, "now _guess_ where I got all this moolah from."

"Well, whatever it is, it's not legal." Looking up, he realized he still had banknotes perched on the top of his head. With his left hand, he dusted his hair and another three hundred dollars fluttered down past his face.

"No, it certainly _isn't_," he smirked. "All right, I'll give you a hint. This is from Danny and Adam."

"Shit," Mac sighed, looking decidedly worried now, "I just _knew_ sending those two out together was a bad call. What on earth was I thinking?"

"You _still_ don't get it, do you?" Don teased him, savoring the moment. "I _won_ this sweet little bundle off your own staff, Mac! Well, them and quite a few of the boys down at the precinct, as well. Apparently, word got around quickly about the Crime Lab office pool. _Hey_, don't look at me like that," he added with a chuckle. "It wasn't _my_ idea!"

Grimacing, Mac held his arm across his chest, trying not to laugh. "It had to be _you_, didn't it?" he gasped and bent forward towards his knees. "I … should've guessed," he added through clenched teeth, grateful that he hadn't made Danny eat the list after all. "Actually, I'm quite _relieved_, to tell you the truth. I obviously worry too much."

"_Obviously_, you do," Don agreed, giving his friend a worried look. "You're not going to rat on us, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Straightening up, Mac shook his head and another fifty-dollar bill floated down onto his lap. "So what are you going to spend it on?"

"On _you_, of course!" Don replied, as if it were completely obvious. "It's only fair, since the bet was at _your_ expense. I'm going to drink you under the table, that's what I'm going to do with this. Once you're off your meds, of course," he added quickly, pointing to the three vials and inhaler on the bedside table.

"You need _ten thousand dollars_ to get me drunk?" Mac exclaimed, looking offended. "Sheesh, what do you take me for?"

"Well, I already know you hold your liquor pretty well. And Stella tells me you have very expensive taste in booze. So, yeah, I figure _this_ is about what it'll take." He held out his arms to indicate the money scattered like autumn foliage right across the room.

"Trust me," Mac replied, rolling his eyes, "it's been done for less."

"I don't know why you think you're such a _cheap date_, Mac," Don scolded him. "I had to bankroll an entire new wardrobe for you, remember? I even paid for the toothbrushes _and_ that T-shirt you insisted we get for Sid."

"Yeah, and that set you back, what? All of $29.99?" Crossing his arms, he pretended to be upset. "Talk about _cheap_."

"Hey, it was the only place in Manhattan _open_ at that hour," Don explained in his defense. "Anyway, who said we're going to do it here in New York City? This'll get you a two-buck bottle of mescal _con gusano_ in Oaxaca. Or a six-pack of lager in Canberra. Or a couple of gallons of vodka in Moscow."

"Great, now I _really_ can't wait," Mac grumbled. "If I have _any_ say in this at all, I'd actually prefer somewhere closer to home, to be honest."

"Good," Don agreed, "because I'm actually planning on splitting this with the ladies as well. It's only fair. The bet was on all three of you. As soon as you're off your meds, the four of us are going on a long weekend together, drinks _entirely_ optional. And that's not a threat, Mac, it's a _promise_."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Mac asked quietly, looking Don in the eye.

Don nodded and patted his shoulder amicably. "Yeah, I am, Mac."

"In that case," Mac sighed, "do me a favor and put this stuff away before Hendricks incinerates it all in his autoclave. This is an _isolation_ ward, for crying out loud."

Arriving outside Mac's room a few hours later, Jo was astonished to see Don on his feet already, leaning casually against Mac's bed. They were talking informally together in hushed tones, just as she had often seen them do during idle moments on the job. This time, however, they themselves had the pallor of crime scene victims and were wearing identical light-blue scrubs. Mac was sitting sideways on his bed, dangling his bare feet over the side, his injured right arm still tucked inside his scrub top. Looking in vain for the cardiac monitor, Jo was pleasantly surprised to note that his chest tube and nasal cannula were also gone now.

When she entered the room, they both glanced up guiltily, relaxing again as soon as they saw that she wasn't a nurse.

"Are you two smurfs really allowed up already?" she enquired skeptically, setting her crutches aside.

"_Smurfs_?" Mac frowned, his lack of comprehension evident. "Is that even a word?"

"Actually, I prefer _boys in blue_," Don replied and pointed down at his scrubs with a smile. "I rustled these up for Mac and me. Look, I even got the right size this time around," he added, holding out his light-blue sleeves. "No more hospital gowns for us – _ever_."

"I'm sure _you_ shouldn't be out of bed," she replied, putting her finger on Don's chest, "and _you_ shouldn't even be sitting up." She tried to push Mac down onto the bed, but he gently held on to her wrist.

"Hey, I'm okay, _really_," he told her with a reassuring smile.

She pointed down into the V-neck of his top. "So what exactly is your arm doing in there, if you're okay?"

"I still can't feel a thing, Jo. Nerve blockers and lidocaine. I realize it's going to catch up with me later," he sighed, "as soon as that stuff starts to wear off." He rubbed his bare foot lightly against her knee. "How are _you_ doing, Jo?"

"Are you playing … footsie with me, Detective Taylor?" she replied, rewarding him with a radiant smile.

"Well, what if I am, Detective Danville?" His own smile broadened as he held out his left arm to her, inviting her into his embrace.

"I think that would be just _lovely_," she sighed, stepping forward.

Don rolled his eyes. "Sheesh, you two bunnies had better get _that_ out of your system real soon." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the side rail. "Otherwise Stella and I are in for a _very_ boring weekend." When he realized they weren't listening, he sighed and decided to leave. "No, _really_, don't get up, I can see myself out."

With a smile, Mac opened his clenched hand, revealing the necklace he had been holding ever since the previous evening. Jo carefully draped it around his throat and closed the clasp behind his neck. Putting her hands on either side of his face, she shut her eyes as she leaned in closer to him. Now her forehead rested against his, and she sighed as he traced his fingertips from her face down the side of her neck to her shoulder. Then he raised her chin with his hand, and she felt his breath on her lips when he suddenly sat up straight.

Jo opened her eyes and realized that he was staring at someone over her shoulder. Seeing his eyes widen in surprise, she spun around to look behind her, but the corridor was empty.

"Who on earth were you looking at?" she asked anxiously. "After Central Park, I get completely paranoid when you do that."

"I think I just saw Stella walk by," he said, mystified. "She hardly turned her head at all."

Jo smiled and relaxed. "Maybe she just thought you needed a little … space."

"Well, she _is_ still my health care agent," he replied with a smile. "I guess she knows what's best for me."

"She's more than that, Mac," she answered simply. "She's your guardian angel."

While he nodded, his smile slowly faded into a frown, and all of the sudden he looked even paler. "I think …" he said weakly, his gaze drifting slightly, "… I need to lie down."

"That's in the _dictionary_," Jo gasped. "You're about to pass out, right?" By putting her palms against his chest, she managed to stop him from falling forward, and instead pushed him gently backwards onto the bed.

With her fingers, she traced the clear plastic tube of the nasal cannula from the flow meter on the wall to where he had left it lying behind his bed. She had just reattached it under his nose when a nurse came in to check up on him. Together, they lowered the bed until he lay flat on his back, his eyelids half-closed now. Wrapping a Velcro cuff around his arm to check his blood pressure, the nurse verified that there was no cause for alarm.

"This isn't a _fashion accessory_, Mac," Jo scolded him, pointing to his nostrils. "I'm beginning to see what Stella means by incorrigible."

After the nurse had left, she sat quietly on his bed with her hand resting against his cheek, while he recovered from his brief syncope.

"Did I just hear you say … _dictionary_, Jo?" he asked weakly as soon as some color had returned to his face.

"Yes," she replied with a smile. "It's all a part of the handover. There are a couple of travel guides, as well, believe it or not."

"What _kind_ of … handover?" He looked suspiciously up at her.

"A _professional_ handover, of course, what else?" Jo laughed. "Stella _is_ my predecessor at the Lab. I'm so glad she's taking the time to show me the ropes."

He opened and closed his mouth. "I'm not even going to ask about that," he muttered.

Raising his knees, it dawned on him that he was unable to get up off his back without help. "You realize I can't get up now, don't you?"

"Mm-hmm," Jo nodded. "I've got you exactly where I want you." She put a restraining hand on his chest. "And you're _not_ getting up."

"Hey, you still work for me, Jo," he replied. "You're _supposed_ to do whatever I tell you."

"Yeah, but I also saved your life, you see. That means I _own_ you now, Mac."

He smiled. "So that's how it works. I always wondered about that."

"And now I get to do whatever I want with you."

"Well, you're going to have to get in line behind Don. He owns me _twice_."

"He already had his date with you, and he didn't even get to first base." She shook her head in disapproval. "Quite frankly," she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, "I think he blew it."

"Oh, I don't know about that. He showered me with money instead."

"Yeah, I heard about the office pool. Stella tells me Don is thinking of renting a beach house for the four of us. Can you even imagine the size of the _next_ office pool?" she mused.

"Especially if Stella suddenly shows up with a baby," he added with a smile. "So what exactly do you want from me?"

"All I want from you is a _proper_ kiss, Mac. I'd be happy to settle for _just_ that," she sighed, before adding, "Well, for now, at least."

Instead of replying, Mac gasped and reached over his chest to his right side, while his eyes slowly widened. His breath was slightly ragged now as he arched his back in an attempt to get more comfortable. Jo realized that local anesthesia applied during the removal of the chest tube was already beginning to wear off. Having his right arm jammed inside the scrub top probably didn't make it any less painful for him.

She lifted the V-neck of his top and peeked down his stomach. "It looks awfully snug down there. Are you sure it's still comfortable?"

Mac's cheeks colored. "Jesus, I hope it's my _arm_ we're talking about here, Jo."

She laughed and tapped her finger on his scrub top. "How exactly had you intended on getting this thing _off_ again?"

"Erm …" he raised his head to look down his chest. "I hadn't quite thought that far," he confessed and lay back with a sigh.

Her face lit up as a sudden idea struck her. "Wait here a second," she said, slipping down from his bed to the floor. "Don't go away, now."

He waited patiently while she left the room for a few minutes, before coming back with a large pair of scissors in her hand.

"Do you mind?" she asked with a grin, snipping the scissors in the air a few times.

"Be my guest," he sighed and sank back down into the pillow.

He felt the cold metal trail slowly up across his stomach as she carefully cut through the fabric, starting down at the lower hem.

When she was halfway to the neckline, she glanced up at him, a sparkle in her eyes. "This is awfully _sexy_, I have to admit," she said, obviously enjoying herself sinfully, "cutting the clothes off you like this, Mac."

Watching her run her tongue along her lips as she continued, Mac began to get suspicious of her motive. "Don't tell me you've wanted to do _this_, too, ever since the day we met."

"Erm …" Her cheeks turned an even rosier shade than his. ''Actually, now that you mention it …" she sighed, having just revealed a very _secret_ secret to him.

His eyes widened. "My God, Jo," he gasped before breaking into a smile. "_Please_ remind me to hide all the scissors at the Crime Lab!"

Placing the scissors on the bedside table, she pulled back the two halves of his top and helped him move his right arm away from the two bandages on his side. Her eyes fell on the tiny purple puncture mark from the decompression needle that had saved his life. Reminded again of their close call at the warehouse, she felt a slight pang of anxiety but was reassured by the little pendant lying on his throat now.

Unable to resist, she traced her fingertips lightly along his collarbone before continuing down across his chest to his stomach. She felt his left arm snake around her waist, and his fingers crawl up under her blouse along the small of her back. She gasped as she felt the palm of his hand push her forward until she lay against his naked skin, her hair cascading down over their faces.

Cradling his head between her hands, she brushed her mouth hungrily across his, nibbling lightly on his lips. His eyes completely alert now, he kissed her back more vigorously. She felt a whiff of oxygen flow up into her own nostrils, making her feel slightly giddy herself.

"Mmm, you _smell_ good, Mac," she mumbled.

After a dozen more tender kisses, she now held his lower lip like a trophy between her teeth, which earned her another raised eyebrow. Laughing, she let go and slid her face down into the soft pillow, her cheek nuzzled against his now. With his hot breath in her ear, she trembled slightly as he held her earlobe playfully between his own teeth.

"And you _taste_ good, Jo," he murmured.

His hand travelled higher up along her back to fondle her shoulders, before crossing down under her arm to caress the side of her stomach. Feeling the tip of his tongue run along her teeth, she parted her lips and let him enter her mouth for an even deeper kiss. Then she pushed his tongue aside to reciprocate his passion herself. Without releasing her, he gently rolled her down until she lay beside him, nestled in the crook of his left arm, her head resting against his pillow.

When she had made her request, Jo had worried that kissing might deplete Mac of air, but now she ended up pulling her head back first, gasping for oxygen herself.

"Damn it, Mac," she laughed, still flushed and breathless. "_That_ has to have been the best kept secret at the Crime Lab … _ever_!"

"Oh?" His brow furrowed in concern. "We're not going to keep it that way?"

Smiling, she reached down and pulled three vials out of her pocket. "Oh, _everyone_ is going to know that we kissed. And from today on, we're going to remind them _three_ times a day for the next _sixty_ days."

Aghast, he stared down at the familiar medication. "Oh my God, Jo, I'm _so_ sorry …" he said, wrapping his fingers around hers. "That's just terrible! I … don't know what to say."

"Don't worry about it, Mac. Hendricks says it's only a precaution. I mean, how was _I_ supposed to know that French-kissing an anthrax victim was frowned upon? _Wimps_."

Looking into his worried eyes, she smiled. "We're definitely going to need to get a reliable alarm clock. Once you're out of here, _I'm_ taking you home with me. Stella has already cleared out my guestroom for you."

"I'm sorry, Jo," he replied, shaking his head apologetically. "I really appreciate the thought, but that won't be necessary."

"But … why not?" Seeing the regret in his eyes, her heart sank and her smile faded. Pantone had obviously neglected telling her and Stella that Mac's apartment had already been cleared.

A mischievous grin spread across his lip. "You have a double bed, don't you?"

"Mac," she laughed, throwing her head back against the pillow, "I thought you'd _never_ ask!"

* * *

><p>Late that evening, Jo was sitting alone in her kitchen, debating whether she should call it a night, when her doorbell suddenly rang. She felt sudden surge of anxiety in her stomach as she hobbled to the door. Checking through the peephole, she wasn't reassured to see Deputy Commissioner Roberts standing outsider, a pained expression on his face.<p>

"Detective Danville," he said curtly when she opened the door, "I sincerely apologize for showing up on your doorstep at this hour. But we have a situation, and I was wondering if you would accompany me to One Police Plaza to help sort this out."

"Oh my Lord," she gasped, "what do you mean, a … _situation_?"

"We received a call from Dr. Hendricks an hour ago. Apparently Detectives Taylor and Flack left Trinity General in the company of Henry Pantone earlier this evening. As of yet, no one knows where they've gone, but DHS is currently running a check on all of their safe houses."

"What!" Jo felt a dizzying qualm of nausea rising in her throat, and she regretted not having brought her crutches with her to the door. "I don't understand. Why would the Director do this?"

"We believe Henry was acting on specific information that Detective Taylor was in imminent danger. I don't know if you've been told that Assistant Director Williams had accomplices inside DHS."

"Actually," Jo recalled, "Pantone expressed his concern when he met him yesterday. But at the time, he said it was just a _hunch_."

"Well, as it turns out," Roberts sighed, "Williams had the _perfect_ alibi for the DNA database violations. He was briefing _me_ on the situation at that exact time."

"But I _still_ don't understand," she exclaimed, steadying herself against the doorframe. "Aren't Don and Mac safe wherever they are now?"

Roberts shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid the DHS Commissioner has just informed us that at least _one_ of the three agents with them was actually collaborating with Williams."

* * *

><p>Earlier that evening, a gifted young psychology postgraduate had just checked in his luggage at La Guardia, when he suddenly decided to call his favorite uncle. Ever since the kindly old man had become a millionaire, their relationship had turned formal and awkward, much to their mutual regret. In fact, now he often shied away from calling him at all, since he didn't want to appear to be asking for handouts. His uncle had offered to pay his Columbia fees, proud to have another scientist in the family. Yet he was equally proud to have refused the offer, relying on his part-time bartending job instead.<p>

The young man had just mentioned some rather startling news about one of his uncle's longtime colleagues, when his panicky girlfriend pushed him in the direction of the rapidly emptying departure gate. Apologizing, he promised his uncle he'd finish the story when he got back, before abruptly hanging up. And in this way, the missing piece of the puzzle departed for Miami on a weeklong Spring Break vacation.

* * *

><p><strong>Next up:<strong> **Chapter 13 – "The Manhunt"** – Williams' accomplices go after Mac


	13. The Manhunt  Part 1

**Author's note:** Thanks for your feedback.

Warning: Tensions run a little high in this chapter, so I've added a little bit of _swearing_ – sometimes '_heck_' and '_darn_' just don't cut it.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13 - "The Manhunt" - Part 1<strong>

* * *

><p>From the back seat of the Dodge Sprint, Don Flack watched Manhattan shapeshift under the settings sun, discarding its daytime identity like a snake shedding its skin. Corporate suits had already given way to a more casual crowd, who were hailing taxies on street corners for a Saturday night out on the town. On the sidewalks where street artists had been sketching tourists – and vendors hawking pretzels and hotdogs - he now saw hucksters scalping theater tickets and peddling cheap imitation handbags. As the van drove by an alleyway, his trained eye even caught a glimpse of shadier nocturnal merchandise changing hands.<p>

While daylight slowly faded, mica flakes in the sidewalks glittered in the glare of their passing headlights. Everywhere, couples were strolling together - laughing, loitering –enjoying the unexpected delight of a mild evening. At a stoplight in Tribeca, Don watched a maître d' scribble the evening's wine listing and menu on a chalkboard sign. Nearby, two young women in stilettos were quarreling with a scruffy panhandler clutching a shopping cart. Turning his head as the light changed, Don raised an eyebrow when one of them sucker punched the old man in the face.

On either side of the Dodge, yellow cabs streaked up Trinity Place like hornets, overtaking them at every intersection. Within minutes, however, traffic gridlocked behind a convoy of flatbed trucks piled with pipes, heading for the MTA tunnel site at Grand Central Terminal. Already bored with the prospect of a potentially long drive, Don realized they wouldn't make it out of the City before nightfall. With a sigh, he leaned back and watched as cleaners flicked fluorescent lights on and off in the empty office buildings of the Financial District.

Glancing down, he noticed the man beside him twiddle something between his fingers. "What's with the inhaler, Mac?" he asked quietly.

Mac sat sideways with one knee drawn up, his head resting on the seatback. Like Don, he wore a dark blue sweatsuit and windbreaker over his hospital scrubs, courtesy of DHS. Unlike Don, however, he had his right arm in a sling and didn't look very comfortable sitting up.

"Apparently," he sighed, slipping it back into his pocket, "I've got some kind of pneumonia now." He rolled his eyes and scowled. "Go figure."

At the mention of the P-word, Don couldn't help but grin. "In Central Park, we thought you had pneumonia, when it was actually _anthrax_. At the warehouse, we were sure it was anthrax, and now you say it's _pneumonia_?" He patted Mac's shoulder lightly. "I guess nothing is ever what it seems, huh?"

Mac gave him a lopsided smile, appreciating the attempt to lighten his mood. "Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this," Don added, shaking his head in disbelief, "but that's some weird karma shit you've got going there, Mac."

"Yup," he agreed unenthusiastically, "that's another way of putting it."

He watched Don yawn and rub his bleary eyes with the side of his fist. "How's your head?" he asked, feeling somehow responsible for his friend's presence in the van. Don didn't deserve getting dragged into their sudden departure from Trinity General, but Pantone had insisted they were both in imminent danger at the hospital.

"I'm okay, really," Don reassured him, "but I'm putting _bad hair_ on my workers' comp claim. No way am I going back to work before _this_ grows out again." With a grimace, he pointed to the shaven patch on the side of his head.

Pantone sat beside agent McKay in the seat row in front of them. "How are you boys doing back there?" he turned around to ask.

"We'll be fine." Mac shifted in his seat and winced. "Eventually."

Pantone frowned skeptically. "Jonathan made me promise I'd run you both past a clinic first thing in the morning. You should really try to catch some sleep on the way." For a moment, he and Mac stared at each other, before his eyes darted briefly over to Don. "Look, Mac, we'll talk when we get to the hotel, okay?" he added.

As he nodded, Mac's eyes lingered on the city lights reflected in the Director's bifocals.

Now they passed close by the WTC construction site, the top of its 80-story structural steel rise still backlit by the setting sun. Its slanted mirror-glass façade reflected the evening sky so perfectly, the building almost seemed to be floating on air. With a frown, Mac reached absently up to his collar, as Don had seen him do a hundred times earlier, whenever they passed this spot. This time, however, he glanced down at the tiny pendant nestled between his fingertips and smiled.

Don pulled a cell phone from his pocket and offered it to him. "You're going to want to call her."

"Thanks, Don." Still smiling, Mac reached for the phone.

Pantone turned his head again. "Is that your own phone?" he asked Don sharply.

"No, it's actually my sister's."

"Well, it might still be a problem," the Director sighed. "Here," he said, motioning for him to pass it forward. He handed the phone on to agent Dougherty in the front passenger seat. "We've got a list of the phones that Jerry was monitoring," he explained.

The agent pulled a file from a briefcase, licked his fingertips and rifled through a thick wad of papers. After a minute, he nodded grimly and handed the phone back over his shoulder to Pantone.

"You _cannot_ switch this on," Pantone warned Don. "Am I clear? Jonathan promised he'd contact your NYPD colleagues once we've left town."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." Don whistled under his breath as he pocketed the phone again. Much to Mac's annoyance, they had already changed vans three times since leaving Trinity General. "You guys really don't do things by halves, do you?" With a barely stifled yawn, he stretched out his legs and went back to gazing out of the window.

All along Fifth Avenue, sales clerks had removed high-end jewelry from window display cases and lowered their security rollers. In one of the recessed doorways, two disheveled youngsters were already settling down on makeshift cardboard bedding for the night. Minutes later, the Dodge passed a row of bikini-clad mannequins in the storefront windows of Bergdorf Goodman. Don broke into a wide grin, pleasurably reminded of his plans to rent a beach house in the summer. Watching him, Mac raised an eyebrow but didn't comment beyond a smile.

As the van inched its way up alongside Central Park, both men stared into the dark void behind the wrought iron fencing. Right now, it was hard to imagine that they had met there only two weeks earlier during a dazzlingly bright early-morning blizzard. Crossing the Harlem River fifteen minutes later, they were held up by downcast fans leaving the floodlit Yankee Stadium after a defeat to the Chicago White Sox. When the Dodge finally picked up speed through the Bronx, Don rose to squeeze into the seat beside Pantone, leaving the back seat to Mac.

Now the sun sank behind a sea of clouds on the Western horizon, setting the sky ablaze. For a brief moment, the whole city took on a surreal saffron hue as the clouds reflected its dying embers. In the rearview mirror, the illuminated crowns of the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings glinted like costume jewelry on the charcoal skyline.

When they slowed down at a Yonkers toll barrier, Don recognized the steel span of the Tappan Zee Bridge outlined in the blue twilight afterglow ahead. Crossing the Hudson, he noticed the chain-link suicide fencing along the bridge, a final reminder of the dark metropolis they were leaving behind. He glanced behind him and saw Mac already asleep on the backseat, his left arm draped over his eyes.

The interstate highway snaked up along the lower Hudson valley, plunging through the dense oak forests of Harriman State Park, before skirting the rugged eastern ridge of the Catskills. Don was amazed at how quickly the urban canyons of Manhattan gave way to isolated farms and woodland copses. As the evening deepened into night, a fog the color of pewter began to drift in over the open fields.

In the empty darkness along the roadside, Don watched endless highway signs materialize like ghosts in their headlights. Eventually, the repeated high-beam, dipped-beam greeting by the oncoming traffic began to irritate his light-sensitive eyes. Now a vise-like headache gripped his temples, and his vision blurred as he gradually grew drowsier. Somewhere between West Point and Poughkeepsie, his eyelids slid shut and he drifted off to sleep himself.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>On the twelfth floor of the NYPD Headquarters, Jo Danville stood quietly in Deputy Commissioner Roberts' office and stared at the bright city lights outside his windows. Down below, the ceaseless stream of white headlights and red taillights resembled two parallel rivers flowing across the Brooklyn Bridge. In the night sky above, she spotted the red-green navigation lights and yellow beacon of an NYPD helicopter crossing Chinatown before descending onto the rooftop helipad. Glancing back down again, her eyes fell on the floodlit marble façade of City Hall across the plaza, and she was unpleasantly reminded of the spiteful letters from the Mayor.<p>

Jo had actually never been inside the large concrete-and-redbrick building before. Walking down hallways adorned with commendations, photos, medals and plaques together with the Deputy Commissioner, she had expected his office to be filled with dark wood, oriental carpets and leather furniture. Instead, it was simple and functional with a plain wood veneer desk and the same swivel chair she had in her own office. On a paper plate by his elbow, he had half-eaten, dried-out ham sandwich – a forgotten leftover from lunch - and there was a half-open gym bag on the floor by one of the windows.

For the past twenty-five minutes, Roberts had been busier signing urgent memos and fielding insistent phone calls than Jo would have expected for a Saturday evening. The search for two missing detectives was apparently on a very long list of emergencies he was dealing with that day. Yet it was obviously also the only task he hadn't delegated to anyone else, and she appreciated his personal attention to the matter.

On the way to One Police Plaza, Jo had phoned Stella at her hotel, and now she was relieved to see the curly-haired detective being shown into the office by a young officer. Jo rose to her feet, and the two women hugged each other briefly before sitting down in the chairs opposite Roberts. Seeing that his second guest had arrived, he pushed his paperwork aside and asked his secretary to hold his calls. Then he got up to pour them each a cup of coffee from a stainless steel thermos pot, before settling down wearily behind his desk again.

"As I already mentioned to you earlier," he began, "Homeland Security are currently checking their safe houses. They're not really expecting to find them there, since Director Pantone knows that the threat against our detectives comes from _inside_ DHS. That's why they're now focusing on locating the vehicle in which they left the hospital."

"I don't understand," Jo said, shaking her head. "Why isn't the NYPD the lead agency on this? We're talking about our NYPD colleagues being in danger here."

"Would you believe," Roberts replied, rolling his eyes, "after all the inter-departmental wrangling we've been through these past two weeks, this is still considered a _DHS_ incident. Right now, I've got several boys down in the Crime Center on the eight floor following up on a couple of leads, and of course TARU is standing by, if DHS should request our tactical assistance. But at the moment, it's _their_ show, and we just have to wait and see what they come up with."

"So what can we do to help find them?" Jo asked anxiously. She glanced over at Stella, who sat rigidly in her seat, looking pale.

"What Homeland Security wants from the NYPD – and what _I_ need from _you_ - is some kind of explanation of what is going on here."

Holding his coffee cup thoughtfully between his hands, Roberts leaned back in his chair before continuing.

"The DHS Commissioner is still reeling from the revelation that an Assistant Director misappropriated a lethal pathogen. I don't need to remind you that Williams' bizarre personal vendetta against Taylor ended up raising the NTAS alert for the _entire_ _City_. And today a DHS Director has gone AWOL after apparently abducting the very same person. That's _really_ not something you see every day, not even here in New York City."

"Why do you think the Director would do something like this?" Jo asked him. "Couldn't he confide in anyone about his suspicions that Williams had accomplices?"

"I happen to know both Taylor and Pantone personally," Roberts sighed and shook his head in disbelief, "and I _still_ can't make heads or tails of what is going on here."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Don woke up with a start when the Dodge pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the Granville Travelodge. While the others stepped out of the van, he held out a hand to help Mac up from the backseat. Gravel crunched under their feet as they stretched their legs, but otherwise the utter silence around them was otherworldly.<p>

A solitary island in a sea of darkness, the unassuming three-story hotel was set back from the country road at the end of a short, tree-lined drive. A cool nocturnal breeze rustled the leaves of the lofty oak trees and blew in a heady smell of freshly mown grass. Up ahead in the distance, a single car zigzagged through the gloom, its headlights flashing like a lighthouse beacon at every hairpin curve. Farther down, a diagonal row of tiny streetlights looked like scattered pearls from a broken necklace.

"Where the heck is _Granville_?" Mac asked, turning around in an attempt to get his bearings under the starless night sky.

"_Don't_ know and _don't_ care," Don answered sourly, his headache now aggravated by hunger. He cupped his eyes and looked through the hotel windows at the deserted breakfast room. "We're not going to get anything to eat before the morning, are we?"

A uniformed man was leaning casually against his squad car, parked near the hotel entrance. His elderly face lit up briefly as he took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt away with his fingertips. Pantone raised a hand to acknowledge the Sheriff and motioned for agent Jensen to go over to talk to him. For a moment, Mac stood watching the two men shake hands, before he joined the others inside the hotel lobby.

When they got to their rooms, the Director excused himself and left to make arrangements for the morning at the nearest clinic. Don kicked off his shoes, picked up a brochure about a local golf course, and sat down on one of the two double beds. Mac pulled his numb right arm out of its sling and rolled his neck wearily, before going to the bathroom for a drink of water. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he looked disapprovingly at the pale face in the mirror. Then he lined up his medication on the shelf above the sink and went back to lie down on the other bed.

McKay entered and switched on the little coffeemaker on the desk, while Dougherty brought in an armful of snacks from the hallway vending machine. Without a word, the two grim-faced agents offered the detectives paper cups of instant coffee and an assortment of packaged cookies. Declining the coffee, Mac lobbed his Oreo packet over to Don, who grinned sheepishly before wolfing them all down.

A few minutes later, McKay went into the bathroom, and they heard the toilet flush through the half-open door. Pulling a disgusted face, Don glanced over at Mac, who just sighed and closed his eyes. Then they heard loud swearing as the agent knocked Mac's plastic vials onto the tiled floor.

Mac's eyes immediately flew open and he drew a sharp breath. He recalled having done the exact same thing himself a few days earlier, but this time the clatter made his blood run cold. He wrapped his arm across his chest and groaned. "I really need … some air," he gasped, pointing to the door.

"Hey, are you okay, buddy?" With a look of concern, Don got up and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You really don't look too good."

Unable to meet his friend's eyes, Mac just shook his head as he struggled to his feet, knocking the bedside lamp over in the process.

The two agents exchanged glances but didn't move. "Go ahead, take him outside," Dougherty finally said. "I'll stay here with the other one."

In the hallway, McKay followed close behind Mac as he stumbled towards the stairs, trailing his hand along the wall to keep from falling. At the top of the stairwell, Mac's fingers brushed across a wall-mounted fire extinguisher, and now they suddenly gripped its handle firmly. In one fluid movement, he yanked the steel cylinder from its wall bracket, pivoted around and swung it against the unsuspecting agent's head. With a grunt, McKay staggered backwards against the stairway bannister, before collapsing over the top.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>At the NYPD Headquarters, Jo and Stella saw Roberts' eyes search their faces for an explanation for the events of the past two weeks. Having expected an explanation from <em>him<em>, the two women glanced at each other and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Deputy Commissioner, but _we_ don't understand what's going on, _either_," Jo told him with a frown. "It was a complete surprise to us that Assistant Director Williams was behind the anthrax attacks. Before he died, he apparently told Detective Taylor that he was avenging the Director's _death_."

Roberts had been leaning back in his chair, but now he sat up abruptly, spilling coffee on the edge of his desk. "But that's just _insane_!" he exclaimed, looking back and forth between the two detectives. "_That's_ the only explanation you've got? How am I supposed to pass this on to the DHS Commissioner?"

"Well, _that's_ what Detective Taylor told us," Stella said with a reluctant shrug. "He also mentioned that the Director has cancer," she added hesitantly.

"Oh? Taylor actually _knew_ about that?" Roberts replied, raising an eyebrow. "We'll, they're close friends, so I guess I shouldn't be so surprised."

"Are you saying no one else knew he was ill?" Stella asked, surprised that anything like that could be kept secret from Homeland Security.

"When DHS found out that Williams was behind the balloons, they started digging around in their personnel files. Apparently, Pantone used his position to keep his illness off the radar, so it was quite a bombshell. Now they're using it as an excuse to suspend him, since he's technically in breach of contract."

"It just seems like a terribly _cruel_ thing to do," Jo replied, shaking her head sadly. "I mean, how can that poor man be held responsible for a nut job like Williams? Especially if he's seriously ill."

"I agree with you entirely," Roberts replied with a sigh. "I even tried to put in a good word for Pantone, but the DHS Commissioner is desperate to wipe the egg off his face. He made such a damned fuss about Taylor punching Williams at the hospital, that our own Commissioner has him over a barrel now. Rumor has it the Secretary is thinking of appointing a new Commissioner, and he thinks blaming Pantone will save his job." He frowned with disapproval. "I'm sorry, Detectives, but that's just how things work in this City."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>His knees buckling, Mac dropped to the carpeted hallway floor and let the metal cylinder roll from his grasp. He knew he had to move swiftly to maintain his advantage, but the sudden exertion had momentarily downed him. With a grimace, he wedged his hand under his armpit to allay the rising pain under his ribs. Keeping an eye on the empty corridor, he sat on his knees and waited impatiently for his breathing to slow down and dizziness to subside. His body was giving him half a dozen urgent reasons to remain on the floor, but he kept his mind focused on the one overwhelming reason to keep moving.<p>

After a few minutes, he got to his feet and descended the stairs down to the dimly-lit basement landing. McKay lay inert beside swing doors leading to the restaurant kitchen. Two fingers on his throat confirmed that the agent was still alive, so Mac used the sleeves of his windbreaker to tie his hands behind his back. Removing the man's gun from his holster, he was disappointed to find only two rounds in its magazine. He extracted their room key card from the man's pocket, but discarded a pin code-protected cell phone. Finally, he dragged a stainless steel bus cart stacked with tableware in front of the body.

After climbing the stairs back to the ground floor, he nudged the door to the lobby open and spotted Jensen and the sheriff talking by the reception desk. As he watched, the two men shook hands again before the sheriff left in the direction of the parking lot. Biting his lower lip, Mac debated if his best option was to leave the hotel himself now in order to look for help. Yet that would mean abandoning Don at the mercy of the agents, whose exact intentions were still unclear to him.

On his way back up the stairs to their room, Mac caught sight of a door held ajar by a maid cart. Pushing the cart aside, he slipped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He managed to slide his hand over the unsuspecting woman's mouth before she had time to scream. When she had calmed down again, he let go of her and held a finger to his lips.

"Don't worry, I promise I won't hurt you," he told her softly. "Stay right here. I just need to use the phone, okay?"

Keeping an eye on the panic-stricken woman, he cradled the receiver on his shoulder, ready to dial Jo's number. Instead of dialing tone, however, he heard, "Granville Travelodge reception. How may I assist you?"

"I need an outside line," he demanded impatiently.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Sir," the friendly voice assured him, "the Sheriff has requested us not to allow external calls at the moment. Perhaps I could take your name and room number –"

Mac hung up and turned to the anxious housekeeper. "Do you have a cell phone on you? Car keys?"

She shook her head helplessly, patting the empty pockets of her uniform. "Both are down in my locker behind the front desk."

With a sigh, he realized that not only was she a liability to him now, she might even be in danger herself for having spoken to him.

"I want you to go home _right_ _now_," he told her calmly, trying his best not to intimidate her. "_Don't_ finish in here. Don't even change your uniform. Tell your manager you're unwell. When you get home, whatever you do, _don't_ call 911. Please try to get in touch with the _NYPD_ instead. It's an emergency. Do you understand? Tell them Detective Mac Taylor asked you to call. Can you remember that?"

She nodded vigorously in her eagerness to please him, yet even as he spoke, Mac recognized the sheer terror in her eyes. There was no doubt in his mind she would contact the sheriff, but he still couldn't bring himself to hold her against her will. Instead, he held the door open for her and watched her rush down the hallway towards the stairs.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Back in the spacious office overlooking Police Plaza, the Deputy Commissioner replaced the receiver after having phoned the DHS Commissioner. There still was no news about the two missing detectives. Jo and Stella went back to discussing Pantone's motive together with Roberts.<p>

"Do you think his sudden suspension somehow sent him over the edge?" Stella asked. "After finding out about Williams, maybe he decided he couldn't trust _anyone_ at Homeland Security any longer."

"It must have been a shock in itself to find out that his own Assistant Director was behind the attacks," Jo added thoughtfully. "Especially considering that he and Detective Taylor are friends."

"I've known the Director ever since he was NYPD," Roberts told them, "and I have very high regard for that man. In fact, I'm the one who suggested that his suspension be postponed till Monday. I happen to know he's a devout man who likes to spend Easter quietly with his folks."

"Well, I can certainly understand why he'd react like this," Jo replied. "To me, it sounds like a last-ditch effort to protect Detectives Taylor and Flack while he still could. Unfortunately for all of us, he trusted the very same agents that Williams did."

Suddenly, Jo heard her cell phone ringing down in her jacket pocket. Excusing herself, she pulled it out to check the caller ID, in case Ellie was trying to get ahold of her. Seeing that it wasn't her daughter, Jo checked her wristwatch and wondered why Sid would be calling at this hour.

"Jo, I'm _so_ sorry to bother you so late," the medical examiner began apologetically, "but something's been troubling me. It's actually about Mac and the DHS Director."

"It's about Mac and Pantone?" Jo exclaimed, holding up a hand to alert the other two. "I _definitely_ want to hear about that, Sid."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Don's jaw dropped open when Mac slipped quietly back into their room, holding a handgun in his outstretched hand. Seeing that the detective was alone, Mac lowered the gun and slid the deadbolt across the door behind him. Then he raised his fingers to his lips and pointed towards the half-open bathroom door.<p>

"Where's Dougherty?" he mouthed silently.

"Mac?" Don gasped, scrambling to his feet. "Have you lost your mind? What the hell are you _doing_?" Stunned, he watched his friend sidle over to the bathroom door and cast a quick glance inside.

"Where is he?" Mac repeated.

"He went down to talk to Jensen," Don explained, still mystified. "He'll be back any minute. What's going on? Where's Pantone?"

"I have no idea," Mac replied grimly, "but we're leaving right _now_."

"But, for Christ's sake, _why_? We've only just arrived!" Don exclaimed, still not convinced of the sudden urgency. "You're serious_, _aren't you? You actually think someone _followed_ us out here from the City?"

"They didn't need to." Mac disappeared briefly into bathroom and returned with the three plastic vials in his hand. He tossed one of them onto the bed beside Don. "These are empty now."

"Shit!" Don picked up the vial and stared at it, his mind trying to absorb the impact of the revelation. "I just can't … _believe_ … Pantone trusted these guys!" His eyes searched Mac's face for more information, but his frown merely deepened. "How long have you got?" he asked Mac quietly.

"Honestly, I don't know," Mac answered, shaking his head. "But we've got to get to a phone. I urgently need to get ahold of Hendricks." He pointed to the doctor's emergency number on the medication label.

"What's wrong with the phone right there?" He pointed to the desk.

Mac shook his head again. "All calls are being routed to the reception desk. Sheriff's orders."

"But – _tah-dah_ - I've still got my sister's phone!" Smiling, Don pulled the cell phone from his pocket. "Have you forgotten already?"

"Don't bother," Mac replied with a sigh. "I think you'll find the SIM card missing."

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Don stared at the words 'Emergency calls only' on the little display. "Are you telling me this'll just get us the Farmville PD? Not the State Police?"

"If the agents have done their homework, yes," Mac replied. "But go ahead," he suggested, "give it a try."

Don dialed and drummed his fingers impatiently on the wall. When a voice answered with the words Mac had expected, he hung up with another expletive. "Your damned _sheriff_ is my emergency!" he snapped and flung the phone across the room.

"Let's go." Mac started for the door. "Wait," he added, turning around. "On second thought, _you'd _better take this. I can't shoot left-handed. Never could." He tossed the gun to Don. "It's only got two rounds, so you'd better make them count."

"_Hey_!" The gun bounced between Don's hands as he fumbled to catch it. "I can't hit the side of a _barn_ at the moment!" He offered the gun back to Mac. "C'mon, you must still be a better shot left-handed."

"Nope." Pulling down his sweatshirt collar, he pointed to the scar above his heart. "How'd you think I ended up getting _this_?"

"Jesus, _now_ you tell me!" Don exclaimed, exasperated. He looked down at the gun in his hands. "When we get out of this, I'm booking you a practice session at Rodman's Neck."

They were interrupted by angry, two-fisted pounding on the door. "_Hey_! What's going on in there?" Dougherty shouted furiously. "Open this door _now_!"

"Hold that thought," Mac said, lunging forward to swipe the security chain across the door. "We might never get that far."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>On the twelfth floor of the NYPD Headquarters, Jo, Stella and the Deputy Commissioner sat in silence, listening intently to the cell phone Jo had placed on his desk.<p>

"My nephew called me earlier this evening," Sid began hesitantly, already regretting having phoned at such a late hour. "We hardly ever speak any longer, it's really sad what money can do …" He sighed wistfully before suddenly adding, "You know what, I really should've waited till the morning."

"No, really, that's _quite_ all right, Sid," Jo reassured him. "I'm still up … it's actually a bit complicated, but there's a … situation. In fact, I'm sitting with Stella in Deputy Commissioner Roberts' office right now, and I've got you on speaker. So go ahead, what were you about to say about Mac and Pantone?"

"_Oh my_! I _really_ didn't mean to …" They could almost hear the medical examiner turn crimson at the other end of the line. "Well, I'd better get to the point, hadn't I?" He laughed awkwardly. "My nephew works as a bartender to pay his college fees. He told me Mac got into a brawl at his bar exactly two weeks ago. That's the night he met with the Director, isn't it?"

"_Mac_?" Jo repeated, exchanging glances with Stella. "Really? How can your nephew be sure it was him?"

"They actually met at my niece's wedding a few years ago. In fact, Mac greeted him by name when he ordered at the bar."

"Maybe Mac broke up a fight?" Stella suggested. "That really sounds more like him."

"No," Sid replied without hesitation, "my nephew says Mac broke a chair fending off an older guy with glasses. Apparently, this guy threw a beer glass against the wall behind him, narrowly missing his face. Mac ended up wrestling him to the floor, and even offered my nephew to pay for the damages. The two of them were _furious_ at each other, when they left."

"Oh. My. God!" Jo's eyes widened, and her hand flew up to clasp her forehead. "_Now_ I finally know what I've been trying to remember about Central Park!" she gasped. "Mac had _cuts_ on the side of his face when I met him!" She shook her head incredulously as the memories flooded back to her. "And he_ really_ didn't want to talk about it. In fact, he told me he had cut himself shaving."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>At the Granville Travelodge, agent Dougherty began kicking the door angrily. "Open this fucking door <em>right<em> _now_!" he repeated.

Don and Mac's eyes met for a second, before they both dropped to the floor and shoved a bed against the door with their shoulders. Every kick was making the door rattle on its hinges, but the deadbolt was secured and didn't budge. Eventually, the agent gave up and began hammering alongside the doorknob with the handle of his gun.

"I'm here for your own _protection_, you idiot!" he yelled. "How the hell can I _protect_ you from out here?"

Still seated on the floor behind the bed, Don glanced up at the shaking door. "That won't hold up forever," he said, hearing the wood begin to crack and splinter under the repeated blows. Turning around, he realized that Mac was opening the window across the room. "_Mac_, stay clear!" he warned him. "He could start shooting any minute!"

"If they wanted us both _dead_," he answered, peering down into the darkness below, "they'd have killed us back at the hospital. There's something else going on here." He leaned out of the window to get a better look. "The ground is sloped, but from up here it looks like a soft landing."

"Sorry, I can't, Mac," Don replied miserably and pointed to side of his head. "The doctors told me if I do that again anytime soon, it'll _kill_ me. I'll just have to take my chances up here."

Mac turned around to stare at his friend. Whatever was going on, the only sensible action was still for him to leave the hotel to look for help. But he also knew the agents would never allow a witness to walk away, and with only two rounds, Don would not last long the moment they decided to take him out. Mac saw the same realization settle reluctantly in Don's eyes.

Watching Mac hesitate and turn to glance back at the open window behind him, Don's heart sank. "I guess we split up now, huh?" he added with a resigned shrug.

"Open this door!" Dougherty yelled and began pounding the door again with his fist. "I'm counting to three, then I'll start shooting out the lock!"

Ignoring the agent's threats, Mac climbed onto the bed to study the fire escape plan on the back of the door. Then he jumped down and tapped the wall above the desk with the side of his fist. "This is load bearing," he concluded before crossing the room to repeat the motion. Here, the sound was lighter, with a slight resonating vibration. "But this is drywall."

"You are in such a shitload of trouble now!" Dougherty shouted and kicked the door again. "You're under DHS command now. You have to do what _we_ tell you!"

Mac rapped his fist along the length of the wall to determine the spacing of the wooden studs inside the wall. Kneeling down in a small walk-in closet by the window, he finally located a sufficiently wide gap between the studs. Don handed him the gun, and he bashed its handle into the center of the closet wall. As expected, the crack revealed gypsum plaster and blue polymer. After another blow, he could pull the insulation out with his fingers.

"If you don't open this door right _now_," the agent raged as he pounded on the door with his gun again, "you are _dead!_"

"Well, he sure is persistent," Don sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll give him that."

"As long as he's making that racket out there," Mac replied, getting to his feet again, "we can try to break through here. We have to be quick, though."

Don nodded and sat down to brace his shoulders against the opposite closet wall. Two powerful kicks immediately widened the crack to ten inches. Glancing up from the hole, he noticed Mac pick up a paperclip from the desk and straighten it with his teeth. Then he disappeared into the bathroom with a wastepaper basket under his arm.

Now Dougherty's gun broke through the door, and he pushed his fingertips through the gap. Then he began hammering the gun around the doorknob again.

Mac placed the basket on top of the bathroom sink and grabbed the wall-mounted hairdryer. Using the gun handle, he splintered its plastic housing, exposing the heating element. Then he pushed the paperclip between the two copper wires inside the cord, arcing the break just below the circuit interrupter. Before returning to check on Don's progress, he switched on the hairdryer, dropped it into the basket with a few rolls of toilet paper, and draped the shower curtain into it.

He handed the gun to Don. "I can get through there now," he said, pointing to the two-foot wide opening he had cleared in the wall.

Don removed another fistful of insulation before giving the hole a few final kicks along the edges. "Now I can, too."

With a grimace, Mac pushed his left arm and head through the jagged hole and managed to crawl through it by twisting sideways. When his feet had disappeared, Don scrambled after him and landed sprawled on the floor of an identical closet in the next room. Brushing the dust and plaster from his shoulders, he looked up and saw Mac already peering out of a small window above one of the double beds.

"This is the last room on the corridor," he turned to tell Don. "There's a ledge from here to the fire escape over there. It's only a few yards, so I think we can make it."

Tossing the gun on the bed, Don joined him at the windowsill. Seen from above, the pitch-dark emptiness beyond the hotel and its parking lot was even more breathtaking. The contrast with the teeming metropolis they had left behind couldn't have been starker. Now they heard no revving car engines, wailing sirens, honking horns, shuffling footsteps or muffled voices, not even a dog barking, just a slight whisper of the wind in the treetops.

"Who the hell builds a hotel in the middle of friggin' _nowhere_?" Don exclaimed with a shudder. "This place so creeps me out. I bet there's even a little old lady skeleton in a rocking chair down in the basement."

Mac smiled briefly. "Well, we're obviously in the mountains. My guess is that this hotel has some kind of scenic view in the daytime. Let's just hope it has neighbors somewhere out there, as well."

Don took a long look at the narrow ledge along the wall, trying hard to work up some enthusiasm for the idea. If they lost their footing, there was a precipitous, two-story drop down to the parking lot gravel directly below. "There's nothing to hold on to," he sighed, shaking his head. "I say we try to reach the fire escape by crossing the hallway instead."

Acknowledging the reason for his hesitation, Mac nodded and went over to listen at the door. In the corridor outside, Dougherty was still swearing and hammering on the other door, but now Mac could hear other agitated voices, as well.

"There's way too much commotion out there right now," he concluded. "We've got to wait for the fire to start back there first." He turned to point towards the closet from which they had just emerged.

At that moment, there was a tiny click before the door flew open, colliding with the wall behind them. Mac turned around and was raising his left hand to defend himself, when a gun slammed into the right side of his face, splitting his eyebrow. With a gasp, he stumbled a few steps backwards and fell onto the bed.

"I want to see your hands, you son-of-a-bitch!" the police deputy snarled, aiming his gun in a two-handed grip at Don's face. "_Don't_ give me an excuse to blow your head off!"

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Back in the Deputy Commissioner's office, Jo, Stella and Roberts were still listening to Sid's account of what happened at the sports bar two weeks ago.<p>

"Can you be sure it was _Pantone_ that Mac fought at the bar?" Jo asked the medical examiner. "It's a pretty vague description. Couldn't it have been someone else?"

"No," Sid replied firmly. "My nephew saw them talk amicably with each other for most of the evening, but at some point Mac started looking more and more upset."

Jo and Stella exchanged glances again. "Well, we already know Pantone told him he was very ill," Jo replied on their behalf. "_And_ that he asked him … a certain favor. So _that_ part makes sense."

"Did your nephew hear _any_ of their conversation?" Stella asked him.

"Well, this is why I felt I had to call you," Sid replied slowly. "You see, it really doesn't make any sense to me." He hesitated, realizing that he was about to make a fool of himself in front of the Deputy Commissioner. "Just before the fight began, he heard the older man yell … that Mac had _killed_ him."

"_What_!" The three people sitting around Roberts' desk stared at each other, their mouths agape.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Seeing the grim determination in the policeman's face, Don slowly raised his hands over his head. "Hey, <em>Mac<em>! Say something!" he called out, without taking his eyes off its muzzle. "Are you okay down there?"

On the bed, Mac groaned and tried unsuccessfully to blink the blood from his vision. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he grumbled and groped blindly for the gun lying somewhere on the bedspread beside him.

Suddenly a wiry young man in a cut-off shirt burst from behind the deputy and slammed the door shut. He swiped the gun from the bed and held it down against Mac's forehead. "Don't. Even. Breathe," he hissed into his ear. Squinting up into the twitchy man's face, Mac reluctantly lowered his outstretched arm onto the bed.

"Pete!" the deputy barked triumphantly into his shoulder mic. "Tell the Sheriff that me and Kenny have the terrorists cornered up at the Travelodge!"

"What the -? We're not _terrorists_, you lunatic!" Don yelled at him, while he cast a bewildered glance down at Mac. "Do we _look_ like terrorists to you, huh? We're _cops_, just like yourself!"

"Shut the fuck up!" the policeman yelled back, undaunted by Don's outburst. "_Sheriff_ says you're terrorists. That's good enough for me."

"Like _hell_ we are!" Don shouted, his anger flaring at the audacity of the accusation. "We're _NYPD_, for crying out loud! Like it says right _here_!" Too furious to care about the gun, he turned around and pointed down at his back. "You dumbass hillbillies, can't you even _read_!"

Glancing over his shoulder, Don was surprised to see the frowns on the two local men's faces turn into angry grimaces. "What? _Seriously_?" he yelled at them, incredulous. "You actually _can't_ read? It's only _four_ friggin' letters!"

Despite having his hand over his eyes, Mac understood their reaction better. "Don," he growled, "it says _DHS_ on your jacket, remember?"

"Damn it!" Don exclaimed and turned to face the deputy again, "I forgot we weren't wearing our own stuff." Shaking his head, he decided to try a different tack with the sheriff's men. "Look, this is obviously some kind of misunderstanding. You two need to get ahold of Pantone. _He_ can explain the situation to you."

Now it was the two local men's turn to exchange baffled glances.

"Did you just say _Pantone_?" the deputy asked, looking confused. "You mean old man Pantone?"

"Yes, _old man_ Pantone," Don repeated impatiently. "Go ask him, he's around here somewhere._ He'll_ vouch for us."

"Just how _stupid_ do you slickers actually think we are?" the policeman snarled scornfully, his eyes rolling over to meet Kenny's. "Pantone died _thirty_ years ago!"

"Tell me you didn't just say that," Mac muttered from the bed. "My head's spinning as it is."

* * *

><p><strong>Next:<strong> **Chapter 14 – "The Manhunt" - Part 2 **Mac and Don's troubles are far from over


	14. The Manhunt Part 2

**Author's note:** A very big special THANK YOU to those of you who also kindly reviewed the previous chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14 - "The Manhunt" - Part 2<strong>

* * *

><p>At the Granville Travelodge, there was a stunned silence as the four edgy men glared at each other. After glancing over his shoulder at Mac, the sheriff's deputy turned back to fix Don in an unwavering stare.<p>

"_What!_ Pantone's _dead_?" Don gasped, keeping his eyes on the gun in the deputy's hands. He was astounded at how fast their conversation had slipped into the Twilight Zone. The Director fairly obviously hadn't died thirty years ago, so there had to be some other, more plausible explanation.

"You're just messing with us, right?" Don concluded with an uneasy grin. "What charming local wit." He shook his finger at the deputy in mock admiration. "You know what? You guys _really_ had us going there for a moment."

"Do we _look_ like we'd joke about Pantone's death?"

Don had to admit that neither man seemed about to burst into unrestrained laughter. If anything, they were eyeing the two detectives with even colder contempt now. His smile faded as he looked down at the man on the bed. "Mac, what the hell is going on here?"

"I have absolutely_ no _idea," Mac replied, just as surprised by the startling news. Even if he'd had the slightest inkling before, his mind now reeled from the blow still ringing in his ears. "At the warehouse, Williams kept insisting that _I _killed Henry. I can't for the life of me work out what he meant."

"Are you saying we came out here with a _ghost_? Someone _you_ killed?" Don exclaimed, wondering how seriously he had hurt his head. "Because I have to tell you, we've gone _way _beyond creepy now."

Mac turned to the deputy. "How exactly did Pantone die?"

The policeman slid his eyes suspiciously towards him. "What's it to you?"

"Just humor me, okay?"

The deputy hesitated, wondering if the two detectives' bizarre conversation was some kind of ploy. "Pantone died of a heart attack," he finally replied. "On his grandson's birthday."

"I wonder, Mac." Don shook his head skeptically. "Does that really sound like your M.O.?"

"Wait, are you telling us … _you_ killed him?" The deputy couldn't believe what he was hearing. "It wasn't a heart attack, after all?"

"I didn't even _know_ him thirty years ago!" Mac was exasperated to be the subject of the insane accusation once again. "I was in _Beirut _at the time, nearly getting killed myself." he added, pointing down at his chest. Closing his eyes, he tried unsuccessfully to come up with a reasonable explanation. "This makes no sense _whatsoever_."

"No kidding." The deputy shook his head in disgust. "You guys sure have a sick sense of humor."

Although Williams' allegation still baffled him, Mac had been convinced that they would eventually uncover the true motive behind the anthrax attacks. If no other explanation was ever found, he was even prepared to accept that the Assistant Director had somehow - inexplicably - become delusional. Yet now – _after_ Williams' death - he was still wading deeper into the same incomprehensible nonsense. He wondered if this meant that _Williams_ had been sane after all, while _he_ in fact was losing his grip on reality.

Somewhat belatedly, he recognized the glaring discrepancy in the deputy's reply. "Wait a minute, what do you mean, his _grandson_?" he asked sharply, opening his eyes again. While he tried to marshal his scattered thoughts, a recent memory surfaced in his mind, and then the realization finally dawned on him.

"Don, I know where we are now." Mac raised himself up onto his elbow, ignoring the gun aimed at his head. "Henry told me his father used to be sheriff in a small town upstate. _Granville_ must be Henry's hometown."

"Who the hell is this_ Henry_ you keep mentioning?" the deputy interrupted, before the same insight struck him. "Oh, you're talking about _Hank_?"

"Yes, _Hank_," Mac replied impatiently. "We came here together with Hank, Pantone's _son_. Go talk to him. He'll tell you we really _are_ NYPD police officers, not terrorists."

"Good thing we got _that_ cleared up, huh?" Don chuckled nervously, waiting for the deputy to lower his gun. "I guess Hank plumb forgot to mention why we're here."

"These guys are lying through their teeth," Kenny snarled. "Nobody said nothing about Hank being back in town."

"He comes home every year for the Easter service." The deputy rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Kenny, _everyone_ knows that." Seeing Don begin to lower his hands, he immediately signaled for him to raise them again. "Hey, as far as we're concerned, you're still terrorists!"

Kenny looked down at Mac, a malicious smile playing on his lips. With the muzzle of the gun, he pushed his head back down onto the mattress.

"Get that _thing_ out of my _face_," Mac growled, trying to get the young man to back off so he could get up. Since the local men weren't willing to lower their weapons, he guessed they were still following the sheriff's orders, whatever they were. "What the hell are you still wasting our time for? Go and find Hank!"

Yet Kenny wasn't about to let himself be intimidated by a stranger with his arm in a sling. Instead, his fingers twitched on the trigger. "Go ahead, _punk_," he taunted him and pressed the gun against his forehead, "make my day."

"Christ Almighty!" Mac recognized a dangerous glint in Kenny's eyes. "I'm going to make you regret you said that."

"Just ask yourself," the young man bent down to hiss in his ear, "_do I feel lucky_?"

"If you're going to be a smartass, Kenny, you first have to be _smart_." Mac realized he had to get Don and himself out of their predicament as quickly as possible. "Otherwise you're just an _ass_." With his free hand, he pulled the corner of the bedspread up to daub his eyebrow, while he tried to clear his head.

"_Hey_!" Kenny yelled, staring at the bloodstains on the fabric. "You're making a mess here!" He grabbed the bedspread and yanked it out of Mac's hand. "My cousin just had this whole place redecorated. Cost a fucking fortune!"

Without another word, he rushed to the bathroom, from which they now heard the sound of plastic snapping repeatedly. Don exchanged mystified glances with the deputy, who kept his aim steady and didn't move.

"_Now_ what's that idiot doing?" Don exclaimed, catching the sudden apprehension in Mac's eyes.

"I sure hope it's not what I think," Mac replied, trying desperately to get up before Kenny returned from the bathroom.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>In the Deputy Commissioner's office the silence was palpable after Jo hung up the phone with the medical examiner. Roberts had pushed his reading glasses up onto his brow and was wiping his eyes wearily with his fingers. He slid his hands slowly down over his face and stared at the two detectives sitting across from him.<p>

"So Pantone actually accused Taylor of having _killed_ him?" he repeated, tipping his glasses down onto his nose again.

"If we take Sid's nephew's word for it," Jo replied as she tucked the phone back into her pocket, "then _yes_."

"You know, I almost regret having asked for an explanation." Roberts drew a heavy sigh. "I don't think I've ever heard such nonsense my entire life."

Lacing his fingers to stretch his arms behind his back, he got up from his desk and walked to the window. He put his hand against the glass pane and stared at the city lights, lost in his own thoughts.

"We've got several _floors_ of tactical and analytical support at our disposal here in this building." He glanced over his shoulder at Jo and Stella. "And yet I don't see how we can possibly act on this information. It's just too _insane_."

Jo rose from her chair and went to stand beside him. "Well, it certainly appears the Director has lost his mind. Just like Williams."

Stella remained seated for a moment, considering the explanation. "Yes, either _that_ or they both know something we don't," she added before getting up to join them at the window.

The Deputy Commissioner nodded reluctantly. "Either way, I guess it's safe to assume that Pantone has some kind of serious grudge – real or imaginary - against Taylor."

They stood in silence for a while, watching the traffic flowing along on the cloverleaf ramps of the Brooklyn Bridge down below.

"It sounds like their friendship ended at that bar two weeks ago."

"But Mac doesn't _remember_ that it happened," Jo replied unhappily. "And for some reason, Pantone has chosen not to tell him." She wound her necklace absently around her finger, inadvertently tightening it against her throat. "I've got a really _bad_ feeling about this."

The three of them exchanged uneasy glances, trying not to think the unthinkable.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Kenny came back from the bathroom carrying a bright blue shower curtain, which he flung out on the carpeted floor beside the bed. Mac was still scrambling to sit up when Kenny grabbed his collar from behind, yanked him back and hauled him sideways onto the curtain. Landing awkwardly on his knees, Mac had to put his hand down on the fabric to keep his balance. With a determined grimace, he reached across his chest to brace his injured shoulder and straightened his back. He was just about to get up onto his feet, when he felt the muzzle of Kenny's gun push down against his temple, tilting his head.<p>

"This is how they do it in the movies." The young man grinned broadly. "We just wrap his body in the shower curtain afterwards."

"You're still going to make mess," the deputy replied with a sigh. "He's going to spatter the walls at that angle. Just take my word for it, Kenny."

Don's eyebrows shot up in alarm. He could tell from Mac's expression that the deputy would be correct in his prediction. "You guys are just _kidding_, right?" he cried out. "Surely, you're not about to _execute_ him?"

"You stay out of this." Kenny shifted his aim to the back of Mac's head. "We're following orders here."

"Aren't you forgetting something, Kenny?" the deputy reminded him. "Sheriff told us only _one_ of them is expendable." Keeping his own gun trained on Don, he nodded down towards Mac on the floor. "How can you be so sure it's _that_ one?"

"Did I just hear you say … _expendable_?" Don gasped, unwilling to believe his ears. "What the hell kind of sheriff uses words like that?" He longed to lower his aching arms, but settled for resting them on the top of his head instead. "What is this, _Deliverance_?"

The deputy groaned. "I'm _so_ going to make you regret you said that."

"Which one of you is it, then?" Kenny looked impatiently back and forth between the two detectives.

"You don't … _really_ … expect us to answer that," Don replied slowly, "do you, Kenny?"

"Well, which one of you is _Taylor_?" Kenny spat out, frustrated at their lack of cooperation. "We'll work it out from there."

Meeting Mac's eyes, Don shook his head defiantly on his behalf. "We ain't telling."

"It has to be _this_ one, Kenny." The deputy pointed to Don. "The other one's too old to be a terrorist. He just said so himself."

"Well, I still think it's _this_ one," Kenny replied. "He told us he was in Beirut, remember?"

"_Hey_!" Mac protested, raising his head to glower at them. "That's not what I –"

At that moment, Dougherty pushed open the door and glanced inside the room. Surprised to find Don in a different room, the agent froze at the sight of Mac on his knees with a gun at the back of his head.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" he yelled furiously at the two local men.

Don had never thought he'd be so grateful to see the agent again, but the relief only lasted a few brief seconds.

"_That's_ Taylor," the agent exclaimed, stabbing a finger in Mac's direction. "We told your sheriff he's _not_ expendable. You _do_ know what that word means, don't you, Deputy _Dawg_?"

"I don't much care for your tone, Agent." The deputy glowered over his shoulder at him. "Especially since _we_ seem to be doing _your_ job around here."

Ignoring him, Dougherty bent down to look Mac straight in the eye. "What have you done with McKay, you son-of-a-bitch?"

Mac glared unflinching back at him. "Fuck you, Dougherty."

"When you see what we have in mind for you, you'll wish that hayseed had pulled the trigger." The agent straightened up with a sigh of frustration. "Keep an eye on Taylor here, while I go back to looking for McKay." His eyes settled briefly on Don. "Do me a favor and kill the other one." He waited for the two local men to nod their agreement before slamming the door shut behind him.

"Okay, you heard the G-man," the deputy snarled at Don, raising his gun to eye-level again. "You and me are going into the bathroom. _We'll_ show Kenny here how not to make a mess."

"You're making a big mistake here! Why are you even listening to _that _guy? You need to get ahold of _Hank_ instead!"

"Just give it a rest, okay? Hank ain't the sheriff around here."

"Yeah, but he's the son of your old sheriff, right? His word must still carry _some_ weight around here."

Instead of replying, the policeman pointed impatiently over Don's shoulder. Eyeing the gun aimed at his face, Don realized he had no choice but to obey him. His hands still clasped on top of his head, he placed one foot behind the other and backed slowly towards the bathroom. Stepping through the doorway, he made a last-ditch effort to help out Mac.

"Whatever you do, Kenny," he called out, "_don't_ turn around to see what we've done to the closet."

Don's mind had already lurched into overdrive to find a way to save his life. He was in no doubt that the deputy would carry out his threat, judging by his resolute demeanor so far. Obviously adept at handling his weapon, the policeman followed Don into the bathroom at a cautious three paces. Even if Don were to lunge desperately for the gun, he'd still have ample time to pull the trigger.

"What the fuck -?" they heard Kenny exclaim in the other room.

Taking another reluctant step backwards, Don felt the bathtub thump against the back of his leg. "_Now_ what?"

"Now you get into the tub."

"I _swear_ I'm a real, honest-to-God police officer!" Don stepped reluctantly backwards over the rim. "Go call the NYPD to verify it! Badge number 8571."

At that moment, they heard two shots in rapid succession in the other room, followed by the soft thud of a body hitting the floor. Don's feet slipped on the enamel, and he rammed a hand against the wall tiles to keep from losing his balance. The deputy raised an eyebrow at the gunshots, but didn't make the mistake of turning around.

"What part of _not expendable_ did Kenny not understand?" Don's mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Had his own words pushed Kenny over the edge just now? After what he and Mac had been through, were they going to lose their lives in some kind of senseless mix-up?

"Kenny ain't too bright," the deputy acknowledged, rolling his eyes. "Well, what'd you expect from a dairy farmer? Flunked seventh grade twice." He flicked the gun at Don. "Now get down on your knees and pray I'll be just as quick about killing _you_."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Standing at his office window, the Deputy Commissioner turned around to lean back against the glass, his arms crossed. The two CSIs beside of him recognized the frustration etched on his tired face. For the past hour, there hadn't been any updates from Homeland Security, and they weren't making any progress themselves.<p>

"Williams' choice of weapon was pretty _unusual_, wouldn't you agree?" Roberts thrust his hand out to emphasize his point. "I mean, it's a little over the top for a personal vendetta."

"We wondered about that, too," Jo replied with a quick nod. "We suspect the balloons were also aimed at someone else. Someone who stood to lose from a terrorist attack on the city. We think it could be the _Mayor_." She turned to look at him. "Can you think of _any_ reason why Williams would want to target the Mayor?"

"_Williams_?" Roberts considered the question carefully, biting his lower lip. "No, I can't," he finally answered.

"But you know of someone _else_ who has a grudge against the Mayor," Jo guessed from his reply.

"Just look around you," he sighed and waved his hand at the illuminated skyline behind his back. "With all of his unpopular budget cuts, half of New York City hates his guts. He's looking at losing his reelection by a landslide."

"Yes, but you're thinking of someone in _particular_, aren't you?" Stella looked him straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry." Roberts' face closed off like a desk drawer shutting. "I really can't be discussing this with you, Detectives."

"Sir, if you have information that his relevant, you really ought to share it with us," Jo appealed to him. "It's our only hope of finding out what's going on here."

"All right," Roberts finally agreed. "_Pantone_ does have a very good reason to be angry with the Mayor."

"Pantone?"

"DHS took a closer look at his medical records today." He tried in vain to keep anger from creeping into his voice. "When Pantone was told his lung cancer was caused by toxins at Ground Zero, he apparently filed for accidental line-of-duty benefits. Yet the Police Pension Fund medical board turned him down."

"Oh, but that's just awful!" Jo exclaimed. "Why on earth would they do that?"

"The Mayor has refused to extend the bill that entitles first responders with respiratory illnesses or cancer to qualify for line-of-duty benefits. Rumor has it he's holding out for the cost to be borne by the federal or state government instead. The Director submitted his application just _one_ day too late." Roberts shook his head and added bitterly, "_Politics_."

Jo was reminded of the petty-minded letters she and Adam had fielded on Mac's behalf. She clenched her fists as she stared down at the floodlit City Hall building tucked snugly behind the tree-lined Plaza.

"So the _Director_ blames the _Mayor_," she muttered miserably, "and the _Mayor_ blames _Mac_." She fought to keep her voice steady before she continued. "And right now, _Mac_ has absolutely no idea that _Pantone_ is actually behind all of this."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>"No, wait! <em>Stop<em>!" Don yelled, refusing to get down on his knees in the bathtub. "Get out there and find Hank!" He pointed over the deputy's shoulder. "He's a _Director_ of Homeland Security, for crying out loud. It's his job to protect _millions_ of people from terrorists. _He_ knows we're innocent."

"You _just_ don't get it, do you?" The deputy sighed and rolled his eyes. "I don't care if he's the Pope. _Sheriff's_ word is gospel around here."

"No kidding!" Don shouted back, throwing his hands in the air. "You've just _murdered_ a fellow police officer in cold blood! You deserve twenty years in the electric chair for that! You _do_ realize you'll never get away with this, don't you?"

"Just doing my patriotic duty here," the deputy replied defiantly. "No court would ever convict me."

"Are you for _real_?" Fear was making Don's heart slam in his chest now. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "What color is the sky in your world?"

"Shut up already!"

When he recognized that Don wasn't about to cooperate, the deputy squinted and took careful aim between his eyes. Seeing the man's fingers tighten their grip on the trigger, Don threw his arms up over his head. Then he turned to brace himself against the wall behind him, and for a split second it seemed his heart had already stopped beating.

The gunshot splintered the tile beside Don's right ear, and a blast of ceramic shivers stung across his cheek and neck. He exhaled and slowly brought his arms down from his face. He blinked several times, astonished to see that the deputy's head and shoulders had turned bright blue now. Watching the man writhe under the shower curtain, it took a moment before he noticed Mac standing on the bathtub rim behind him, his arm wrapped around the deputy's throat.

"A little help here!" Mac yelled down at him, trying to keep his balance while the deputy twisted his body left and right.

The deputy's arms flailed wildly as he fired his gun again, shattering the mirror and sink in a cloud of glass shards and porcelain dust. By bending forward, he managed to pull Mac up onto his back, yet Mac kept his arm doggedly in place, thereby tightening his chokehold on the policeman's throat. With a muffled grunt, the deputy straightened up again and brandished his gun unsteadily up at his assailant. Two gunshots hammered the ceiling above the bathtub, and a bits of plaster drizzled down over the three men.

As he fought for air beneath the shower curtain, the deputy clawed desperately at Mac to pull his arm away from his throat. Don managed to wrest the man's hand off Mac's face, while keeping a nervous eye on the gun now joggling in his direction. He gulped when the next bullet narrowly missed his legs and struck the bathtub between his feet with a loud metallic twang.

In a final attempt to free himself, the deputy flung his head back, and now Mac finally lost his footing. Both men toppled backwards into the bathtub, slamming Mac into the wall and knocking Don clean off his feet as well. Mac grimaced as he slid down the tiles and the deputy began to slip out of his arm. By bracing his foot against the bathtub rim, he managed to keep himself upright and yank the deputy back against his chest. Again the deputy began to kick and elbow his way out of Mac's grasp, treading on Don in the process. With a yelp, the detective covered his head and tried to extricate himself from under the feet the two struggling men.

They suddenly heard loud swearing from the other room, and then Dougherty burst in through the open bathroom door. When he saw the three men in the bathtub, his eyes widened with disbelief.

"What the hell -?" he exclaimed and reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.

Mac released the deputy's throat and quickly grabbed his wrist instead to point his gun at the approaching agent. Both guns discharged at the same time, and a tile exploded above the shower head, sprinkling them with more splinters. The agent clutched his throat with a wet gurgling sound before he collapsed onto the floor.

Sprawled out in the bathtub, Mac and Don's eyes slid over to meet each other. Between them, the deputy was still grappling with the shower curtain over his head. With considerable effort, Don managed to extricate his right arm and throw a punch at his face. The deputy's body stiffened and his head lolled onto Mac's shoulder. Finally, the bathroom fell silent again.

Struggling to his feet, Don climbed out of the bathtub and reached down to help Mac up. With his foot, he rolled Dougherty onto his back to confirm that the agent was indeed dead. Then he bent forward to brush the plaster dust and tile splinters from his hair.

"Remind me … _not_ … to do … that again." Closing his eyes, Mac leaned back against the wall behind him while he heaved gulps of air into his lungs.

"Three men in a bathtub." Don shook his head in disgust and put his hands behind his hips to flex his aching back. "_Not_ even as a frat stunt."

His eyes still shut, Mac ran his hand down his chest to check his injuries. "This _really_ can't be … what Hendricks had in mind … when he agreed to discharge us." He fought the temptation to slide down the wall to the floor, knowing that if he lay down now, he wouldn't have the strength to get up again.

Don leaned forward to place his palms against the wall beside him, exhaling slowly as he stretched out his lanky frame.

"How about _that, _huh?" He cast a sidelong glance at Mac and grinned. "You're going to want to update your résumé. You _can_ shoot left-handed, after all."

Still dazed, Mac opened his eyes to stare at him blankly for a moment. "You're right," he finally acknowledged, "as long as it's someone else's hand."

"Un-be-lievable." Don gave a low whistle at the state of the bathroom. "Kenny's cousin will think he had _rock stars_ staying here."

Pushing himself off the wall at last, Mac grabbed a towel and threw it into what was left of the hand basin to soak it in cold water. With a groan, he held it against his bloody face and turned to where the mirror used to be.

"Here, let me have a look." Don bent down to study his battered eyebrow. "You're going to need a couple of stitches there." With an empathetic frown, he reached out to touch the side of his face.

"_Don't_." Mac winced and took an involuntary step backwards. "It hurts like crazy."

"Yet another reason to get you to hospital, Mac," Don sighed. "We've got to get the hell out of this damned hotel."

He bent down to pick up both guns, checked their magazines, and handed one of them to Mac. Both men tucked the weapons into the waistbands of their sweatpants as they left the bathroom. In the other room Kenny was lying spread-eagled on the floor, one leg flung up onto a bed and the empty gun still clutched in his limp hand.

"Good for you, Mac." Don stepped over the young man's body to get to the open window. "You killed Kenny for his lousy Dirty Harry impersonation."

"He's not _dead_, Don," Mac growled, rolling his eyes. "He cracked his head on the desk when I yanked the shower curtain from under him. Not the sharpest tool in the shed." Going to listen at the door again, he remembered to throw the deadbolt this time. "Nice call about the closet, by the way. I just can't think straight at the moment."

He was disappointed to hear agitated voices in the hallway. "Damn it, we still can't go this way, unless we want to leave with our guns blazing."

Don was leaning out of the window to take another look at the ledge leading to the fire escape. "Well, _you_ wanted to go this way, Mac."

Mac joined him at the windowsill and looked at the narrow ledge. "What was I thinking?" he said, casting a skeptical glance at the parking lot down below. "I've changed my mind now."

"When exactly is your whatsit going to blow back there, MacGyver?" Don turned to point impatiently at the closet behind them. "Because we seem to have run out of other options."

"How would _I_ know?" Mac threw his hand in the air in exasperation. "It's not like it's on a timer."

They both froze when they saw a curly wisp of smoke waft towards them from of the closet. A moment later, the fire alarm bell began clanging shrilly in the hallway outside.

"Finally!"

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>In the only office still occupied on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, Stella and Jo stood at the window with the Deputy Commissioner in silence.<p>

"Sir, you know both of them personally," Stella suddenly exclaimed. "Can you think of _any_ reason why Director Pantone would have a grudge against Detective Taylor?"

Roberts scowled at her, rankled to have been asked. "No, _of course_ I can't -" he started, before stopping in mid-sentence. His eyes suddenly widened and he drew a sharp breath. "Oh my God. I should have realized, when I heard about his cancer."

"You've just thought of a reason, haven't you?"

"Well," he replied slowly, still not entirely convinced, "it hadn't occurred to me before, but... this might be about … Jack."

"Jack?" Jo stared at him without comprehension. "Oh, you mean Pantone's _son_? But he died on 9/11, didn't he?"

Nodding, Roberts thought back to the dreadful day the world had changed forever. "With all the devastation in the wake of attack, no record was made of exactly what happened to Jack. And for everyone's sake, I made sure to keep it that way. Not even Pantone and Taylor ever knew the full story." He paused to let the realization settle in his mind. "Until now, that is."

The Deputy Commissioner proceeded to give them his account of the circumstances surrounding Jack Pantone's death, patched together from witness statements that had crossed his desk in the months thereafter. Realizing that it would destroy the two men's burgeoning friendship, he had decided to bury the truth in the rubble of horrific memories from that day. Roberts finished his narrative with a final, devastating fact that made all the other pieces of the puzzle tumble into place. "_It had already been cleared_."

For a few minutes, Jo and Stella sat unmoving, too stunned to speak.

"Oh my dear Lord," Jo finally breathed, her face ashen. "So _that's_ what Williams and Pantone meant!"

"Mac and Pantone must have discussed it at the bar two weeks ago," Stella added, her hand still clasped over her mouth in horror.

Nodding weakly, Roberts closed his eyes before finishing her sentence with a sigh, "And together they worked out what really happened."

"No wonder the Director is _furious_ at Mac." Jo turned to face Stella. "He went to the bar to ask Mac for a favor – only to discover that Mac _had already done it for him_."

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>By the time Mac and Don finally left the hotel room, the hallway outside was filled with smoke and deserted of people. Holding their sleeves across their faces, they slipped out through the fire escape door that had been left ajar by the other fleeing guests. Don kept a hand on the gun in his waistband as they clattered down the steel steps to join the crowd gathering in the parking lot below.<p>

Heading for the country road, they crept around to the front of the hotel through the knee-high shrubbery in barely visible flowerbeds. Yet they were cut off when a convoy of vehicles - including two squad cars and a fire engine - hurtled down the tree-lined drive and skidded to a halt before the hotel. Car doors slammed and now people began swarming around both sides of the building.

Don and Mac retreated to the parking lot, where the hotel manager was yelling to be heard over the bustling commotion. He pounded his fists on the cars parked closest to the entrance to get the owners to make room for the fire engine. Don expected to have to elbow his way through the crowd, but the throng of middle-aged guests in pajamas and nightgowns parted like the Red Sea before them. Especially Mac, still holding the bloody towel to his face, was given a wide berth.

"We don't exactly blend in here, Mac. We look like escaped convicts."

"Let's head for the cars parked at the back." Mac pointed towards the farthest corner of the parking lot and patted the gun under his sweatshirt. "We'll persuade someone to give us a ride out of here."

Keeping their eyes fixed on the ground, they slipped past the onlookers streaming towards them to watch the unfolding spectacle. Over his shoulder, Don saw someone in the crowd point back at them and several heads turn to stare. In the midst of the faces gawping up at the fire, a uniformed man reached down to speak into his shoulder mic. Don eyed him nervously until he lost sight of him behind a crew of firefighters rushing to combat the blaze.

The crowd thinned out as Don and Mac crossed the parking lot, and now the only footsteps crunching the gravel were their own.

"We should make a run for it." Even at their brisk pace, Don felt the hairs tingle at the back of his neck. "The sheriff's men could easily take a shot at us out here in the open."

Mac glanced back towards the hotel. "They won't, if they have any sense," he replied, quickly discarding the towel in his hand. "We're dressed alike. They can't tell us apart at a distance."

When they reached the cars parked along the farthest edge, they began to check them systematically for unlocked doors or keys left in the ignition. In the near pitch darkness, Don cupped his hands over his eyes to peer at dashboards and backseats, on the off-chance that a cell phone had been left behind. Through the windows, his eyes suddenly caught sight of two elongated shadows crossing the parking lot in their direction.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, prompting Mac to whirl around.

Backlit by the fire and blinking emergency lights, two burly men were striding briskly towards them, carrying flashlights in overhand grips. Don and Mac ducked down to squat between two of the cars and pulled the guns from their waistbands. With bated breath, they waited for the men to catch up with them, but suddenly their flashlight beams and footfalls veered off to the right. The detectives sat quietly for several minutes, listening in vain for their whereabouts.

With a nod from Mac, Don leaned forward on his hands and knees to peer past a car bumper towards the hotel. He was just about to report the coast clear, when he heard the sound of gravel churning behind him, and realized that Mac's feet were furiously kicking the ground now. Circling in from behind them, one of the men had managed to grab ahold of Mac's sling behind his neck and was pulling it tightly back against his throat. He whacked the gun from Mac's hand with his clenched fist, and it clanked across the hood of a car to disappear over the edge.

Don raised his own gun and pointed it at the two struggling men, their contours barely visible in the inky darkness. Taking a step closer, he squinted in an unsuccessful attempt to separate the two shadows.

"Stop right there!" the man growled menacingly. "Or I break his neck."

"Shoot him!" Mac croaked, trying to work his fingers underneath the fabric cutting into his throat. "Go ahead!"

To steady his aim, Don clutched the gun handle even tighter between his shaky hands. He attempted to trace Mac's outline with its muzzle, but could still only make out a single blurry figure. Despite Mac's appeals, he didn't trust himself to shoot.

"Hey!" he shouted instead, letting go of the gun with one hand to point towards Mac. "He's. Not. Expendable!" he explained and waited for the man to release his grip. "_Hello_! You _do_ understand what that means, don't you?"

With a broad grin, the man slung his brawny arm under Mac's chin, leaned back and tugged him right off the ground.

"He's. Not. Listening," Mac gasped, kicking his feet in the air. "Just _do_ it! Now!"

Still Don hesitated, brandishing his gun aimlessly at them, before he finally made up his mind. He drew a deep breath and stabilized one hand with the other. Mac's eyes widened in panic when he saw Don shut his eyes before pulling the trigger. The single gunshot was barely audible above the wailing ambulance siren approaching the hotel. When Don opened his eyes again, both men lay sprawled on the ground.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>At the NYPD headquarters, Deputy Director Roberts stood beside his desk, silently jotting down information being relayed to him by phone. Watching the frown deepen on his face, Jo and Stella realized that the unexpected news was not entirely to his satisfaction.<p>

"Talk about a royal _screw-up_, and we can't even blame _DHS_ for this one," he grumbled as he hung up. "Apparently, dispatch received a call an hour ago from a woman working at a hotel in a small town upstate. According to her, a Detective Mac Taylor asked her to contact the NYPD."

"_What_? An _hour_ ago?" Jo glanced anxiously down at her wristwatch. "Why weren't you notified sooner?"

"Taylor's name is flagged in the databases, of course, but the message apparently reached the wrong Deputy Commissioner's office." Rolling his eyes, he pointed his finger vaguely towards the hallway.

"This must mean that Mac _knows_ that they're in trouble." Stella reached out to wrap her fingers around Jo's. "I wonder if he also realizes what's going on."

"Our dispatchers at least thought to contact the state police, thank God," Roberts continued, reading from his notes. "Their troopers are tied up directing traffic after a bridge collapsed earlier this evening, though, so they passed it along to the Granville PD instead."

"Granville?" Jo asked, her eyes searching his. "Where the heck is _Granville_?"

"Basically, it's in the middle of nowhere." Roberts went to look at a large wall map of the state of New York behind his desk. He placed his finger on a tiny dot on the northern ridge of the Catskills, thirty miles southwest of Albany. As he stepped back get an overview of the outlying area, Stella and Jo leaned in to study the town and its surroundings more closely.

Granville was located on route 145, which cut diagonally from the New York Thruway to the I-90 by skirting around the northern boundary of the Catskill Park. The town appeared to be situated above acres of rugged farmland dotted with small hamlets, sprawling state forests and several massive damned reservoirs.

Roberts pointed at one of the many spindly country roads crisscrossing the area. "Currently, all traffic is being diverted here along the 145 until the bridge over Schoharie Creek is reestablished."

"Do we know if they're still at the hotel?" Stella asked him.

The Deputy Commissioner shook his head regretfully. "The local PD has already checked it out for us. Apparently, they only stopped there briefly to ask for directions to the I-90. The detour is not marked very clearly. The sheriff has been very helpful, though. He's circulated a description of their vehicles – two Ford Explorers - and is coordinating road blocks at a 50-mile radius together with the state police."

Jo stared at the map, her heart sinking as she traced her finger slowly from Granville up to the interstate highway that ran the 3,000 miles from Boston to Seattle. "If they've managed to reach the I-90 already, they could be _anywhere_ by now."

"As we speak, my team is coordinating our search with Homeland Security, the New York and Pennsylvania state police and even the O Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. An all-points-bulletin has already been sent to Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo and Toronto. _Finally_, we can put this building to work." He turned to face them with an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, Detectives, we _will_ find them."

* * *

><p><strong>Next:<strong> **Chapter 14 – "The Manhunt" - Part 3 - **Mac and Don try to escape from the sheriff and Pantone


	15. The Manhunt Part 3

**Author's note: **I would like to send special thanks to those of you who took the time to send me a kind review.

All the pieces of the puzzle are out there now, hidden in plain sight, so now it's just a matter of putting them together in the right order. The lynchpin is the sentence written in italics in the previous chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15 – "The Manhunt" - Part 3<strong>

* * *

><p>Don bent down to Mac, who was still untangling himself from the grip of the dead man lying beneath him. With a groan, he rolled onto the ground and coughed to clear his throat. Then he worked the sling off his right arm and unwound the fabric from behind his neck. An unpleasant prickling sensation in his fingertips told him that the local anesthesia had begun to wear off.<p>

"You closed your eyes, damn it!" he growled hoarsely, getting up on his elbow. "Don't _ever_ do that."

"Hey, I _did_ try to warn you." Pleased to have resolved the situation, Don merely shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, it worked, didn't it? Maybe I should close my eyes more often on the job."

Yet Mac was unable to shake the image of Don firing blindly at him. "Okay, _that_ settles it," he snapped ungraciously. "You're coming with me to Rodman's Neck!"

Don frowned. "Only if I get to shoot apples off your head, Mac."

"Fine by me," Mac grumbled, "as long as you keep your damned eyes _open_."

"You know what your problem is?" Shaking his head, Don offered his hand to Mac. "You seem to have a serious case of _bad karma_. I told you before, remember?" He pointed down at Mac's throat. "_This_ is what you get for trying to strangle that deputy."

Mac looked skeptically up at him, recalling who had in fact finished off the deputy. "Whatever," he sighed and reached up to grip Don's hand. "As long as it doesn't rub off on –"

A shadow suddenly materialized beside Don, and a large grizzly bear of a man stepped forward to throw a powerful punch at the detective's head. His eyes rolling skywards, Don dropped his gun and teetered for a few seconds before tumbling backwards onto the ground. The man prodded Don's lifeless body with his foot, but to Mac's horror the detective lay unmoving, his empty eyes staring up into the dark.

Satisfied that Don was dead, the man turned around to pounce on Mac, still sitting on the ground. Mac ducked his head and threw himself forward - narrowly missing the man's feet - to reach for Don's gun lying somewhere in the gravel. The heavyset man landed on Mac's legs with a grunt, effectively pinning him to the ground.

"Hey, Don, say something!" Mac scrabbled in vain for traction in the gravel to pull himself free. "Are you _all right_?"

While he groped for Don's gun with his outstretched hand, his assailant clambered over his body to sit astride his back. Feeling a jolt in his shoulder, Mac realized to his alarm that the man had wrested his injured arm up behind his back. He bit back the pain and kept his eyes fixed on Don, sprawled out in the shadows only a yard away.

"Don! Can you hear me? Tell me you're okay!"

Mac's fingertips kept brushing against the handle of the gun, lying just beyond his reach. With a frustrated groan, he swept up a handful of gravel and flung it back at his assailant's face. The weight on his back shifted as a fist grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Mac still managed to wrench his hip up a few inches, giving him just enough leverage to thrust out his hand and grab the gun.

Swiping the weapon off the ground, he fired it blindly over his shoulder. One of the bullets found its mark, and the man crumpled and slumped forward against Mac's shoulder. Although desperate to get to Don, Mac realized he didn't have the strength to shift the bulk now sprawled across his back.

"I don't _believe_ this," he exclaimed and beat his fist on the gravel.

He lay for a moment, resting his forehead on his wrist, and waited impatiently for his breathing to ease up. When he flexed the fingers of his right hand, he felt a dull ache creep up his arm and spread into his shoulder. With gritted teeth, he raised himself onto both elbows before pausing for breath again. Then he squared his shoulders and finally managed to roll the body off his back and onto the ground.

He scrambled on his hands and knees to where Don lay, and his fingertips quickly located a rapid pulse on his throat. Lowering his ear to his mouth, Mac was grateful to hear him still breathing, yet alarmed to see Don's face remain completely blank. He waved his hand before his unblinking eyes and called his name repeatedly, but got no response at all.

"Oh Jesus, wake up! _Please_!" he gasped.

He seized Don's hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around his, but the detective failed to respond to his grip. Slapping his face, Mac was distraught to feel Don's head loll limply under the palm of his hand.

"C'mon, Don!" He gripped Don's slack jaw to steady his face while he tried to make eye contact. "I can't do this without you."

Exasperated, he finally pinched Don's earlobe and twisted it as hard as he could between his fingertips. Don's legs immediately shot up into the air as his whole body unexpectedly jackknifed, nearly knocking Mac onto his face. The detective spluttered and blinked several times before his eyes finally settled on the man kneeling beside him.

"Damn you, Mac, that really _hurt_!" he gasped, holding his ear indignantly while he pushed himself upright. "What the hell did you do _that_ for?"

With a deep sigh of relief, Mac reached out to put his arm around his shoulder, but Don shoved him away roughly.

"_Don't_ come near me!" he exclaimed, still clutching his throbbing earlobe. "I should've done that to _you_ at least a half a dozen times. Could've saved myself a whole lot of grief!"

Grinning to himself, Mac sat and listened patiently to his friend's rambling rant. In the younger man's reaction, he recognized his own ill-tempered response to their predicament only a few minutes earlier. Gradually, Don's angry words petered out as he began to regain his bearings and realized what had actually happened.

"Here, _you'd _better take this." Mac had waited until Don had calmed down before handing back the gun. "Even with you eyes closed, you're _still_ a better shot than I am."

Don tucked it under his sweatshirt and flashed a sheepish smile. "Damned right, Mac."

"How's your head now?"

Don reached up to touch the side of his head. "I'm obviously just as hardheaded as you are."

"Well, you're certainly just as _stubborn_, Don. Good thing, too."

They sat talking quietly for a moment, while Mac reassured himself that Don had indeed recovered from the blow. Then he got wearily to his feet and turned to glance around him in the dark.

"Stay right here while I look for the other gun and the flashlights those two bozos were carrying." Mac walked to the nearest car and swept his hands blindly across its hood to locate the gun he had dropped earlier.

As Don climbed to his feet to help his search, they suddenly heard heavy footsteps approaching rapidly across the gravel. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the parking lot as six men converged on them from the direction of the hotel. Realizing they were outnumbered, Mac and Don backtracked and fled into the empty void behind the last of the parked cars.

Beyond the parking lot gravel - and a narrow strip of mown grass - the terrain quickly proved treacherous to navigate in the dark. Ahead of them, the ground sloped upwards into a thicket of sumacs and birch saplings in a dense undergrowth. Don and Mac held their arms before their faces as they plunged through the scraggly tangle of branches, pausing only to unsnag their ankles from the roots and vines underfoot. By the time they reached a clearing up on the hillcrest, they both had to take a moment to catch their breath.

Over the treetops, they saw a plume of smoke rise up into the illuminated sky above the Travelodge. Flames were still unfurling like orange and yellow streamers from the top-floor window Mac had left open, and now the fire appeared to have spread to the adjacent rooms as well. Perched at the top of their ladder with a fire hose, the firefighters were clearly struggling to keep the blaze under control.

"_Hoo boy,_" Don exhaled slowly. "Let's just pray we make it out of Granville without running into Kenny's cousin."

Now they heard voices and the staccato crackle of police radios coming closer. Looking around, they spotted flashlight beams sweeping up towards them through the trees down below.

"Damn!"

The other side of the hill was treeless, with boulders and patches of loose rocks scattered between grass tussocks. Don and Mac descended the steep slope diagonally, picking their way with caution to avoid pitching headlong into the darkness below. Gradually, the clamor at the hotel faded behind them, and by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, they were enveloped in a hushed silence again.

After a few minutes of stumbling through the dark, Don glanced over his shoulder and saw the flashlight beams still up on the hillside. Reassured that they weren't being followed, he turned around and immediately collided with a dilapidated wooden fence. With a groan, he bent down to rub his grazed shin, which gave Mac a chance to catch up with him. When Don tried to clamber over the fence, it crumbled beneath his feet, leaving a heap of rotted timber for Mac to wade through, swearing under his breath.

Realizing that Mac was struggling to keep up, Don slowed down to a much easier pace, just as he had done in Central Park two weeks earlier. Yet already after just a few minutes, he couldn't hear Mac's footsteps behind him any longer.

"Yo, Mac, where'd you go?" he called out, turning around slowly with his arms outstretched. He blinked several times to improve his night vision, but Mac still didn't appear. "This is like the dark side of the moon."

"I'm over here." Mac's voice came from somewhere ahead of him, on his right.

"We're never going to find a phone out here, are we?" Don asked, hoping to locate Mac by his reply, before they actually walked into each other.

"You're right," Mac sighed, suddenly standing next to him. "I say we go around this hill and try to head back to the country road. We should be able to see the hotel from afar, at least until the fire is extinguished."

Keeping the foot of the hill on their right, they trekked side-by-side in silence for a while. At first, they were grateful just to be walking on level ground, but soon they found themselves wading deeper and deeper into an unseen sea of wild grasses, sedges and rushes. Holding his hands out for balance, Mac felt grass seedheads brush against his palms and snag between his fingers. To him, pushing through the waist-high vegetation soon felt as strenuous as walking through soft sand or deep snow.

Don heard him pause several times to catch his breath.

"Mac, are you all right?" He turned around to face him with concern. He didn't even dare to imagine the trouble they'd be in if Mac passed out in the middle of nowhere. Although Mac really had no choice, Don knew he was pushing his luck with every step.

"There's just no … _air_ … out here," Mac complained, bending down to put his hands on his knees. Again, he struggled against an overwhelming urge to lie down. Don heard a metallic rattling as he shook his asthma inhaler instead. Draping his arm across his shoulder, Don supported him while he tried to reign in his ragged breaths.

All around them, a breeze was constantly stirring the slender grasses, causing them to swirl and curl ceaselessly. With a frown, Don tried to recall ever having breathed such bracing fresh air in his life. Every time he inhaled, the air tingled his nostrils and prickled down in his lungs, making him feel slightly lightheaded.

"You want to rest up for a while?" he suggested. "Or maybe we should just wait here until daybreak?" Yet even as he spoke, Don realized it wasn't a viable option.

With a sigh, Mac straightening his back and turned to face him. "I don't have that kind of _time_, Don," he replied quietly. "If we don't get to a phone before dawn, I'm dead."

Don felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, hearing Mac actually say it. "Then get behind me and grab ahold of my jacket, okay? That way, you can pull me back if I walk over a cliff."

"Okay," Mac agreed reluctantly.

Like a tugboat, Don plowed a passage through the rippling vegetation, with Mac following snugly in his wake. Being pulled along while holding on to Don's jacket was much less tiring for Mac, who finally allowed himself to relax a bit. Eventually, the rhythmic plodding of their footfall began to numb his mind, and he closed his eyes. To him, the soft rustling of the grasses sounded like someone sighing in their sleep, and his thoughts inevitably drifted to Jo. He imagined her slumbering in her bed, blissfully unaware that they were in trouble, and his whole body ached to lie down to rest by her side, instead of stumbling through the wilderness.

_Whip-poor-will._

In Don's mind, the sudden birdcall sounded like a squeaky wheelbarrow being pushed towards them.

_Whip-poor-will._

"What the hell is _that_?" Don halted abruptly, causing Mac to walk straight into him.

"I have no idea," Mac grumbled, holding a hand up to cup his stinging eyebrow. "I seem to have left my _bird guide_ back at the hotel."

A few minutes later, they passed through a grove of tall trees, evident only by the wind whispering in branches high above their heads.

_Twit-twoo. Twit-twoo._

Hearing the owl call, Mac paused and braced himself for Don to stop again, but this time the detective just forged on regardless.

"What's the matter, Mac?" Don called over his shoulder. "You getting jumpy back there?"

Mac couldn't help but smile. "You're a real hoot. You know that, don't you?"

"Yup. Part of my natural charm."

For the first time, the pitch darkness enclosing them receded slightly, enabling Mac and Don to distinguish each other's silhouettes. With a sigh of relief, Don glanced up and noticed a slight gap in the cloud cover above.

"Hey, look, a star," he exclaimed, leaning back to point up at the solitary star that had appeared between the clouds. "I bet that as a Marine, you can tell which direction we're heading now."

Despite himself, Mac glanced up to find the star he meant. "As a Marine, I can tell you we're still on the planet Earth," he sighed. "Maybe."

Before it disappeared again, the star afforded just enough light for them to distinguish a long stretch of white-painted fence in the gloom straight ahead.

"This is good." Mac's spirits were lifted by the sight of the horse fence, which meant they were finally getting back to civilization. "There has to be some kind of trail or road over on the other side. Let's cut straight across the paddock."

With newfound energy they headed towards the fence, where Don was the first to plant his foot on the bottom rail. He had just grabbed ahold of the top of the fence, when he abruptly whipped his arm back, swearing loudly.

"Damn it!" He shook his hand vigorously in the air. "Careful, Mac. There's a live wire behind the top rail."

Walking across the enclosure, Mac and Don heard rough rustling in the thick grass all around them, as the horses began to react to their presence. At first, all they heard was a few low grunts and the occasional muted clopping of hooves. Then it was quiet again, and Don had just begun to relax, when they were startled by a sudden tremulous, high-pitched neigh right behind them. All around them, horses answered by letting out deep, fluttering breaths through their nostrils.

"What's going _on_ here?" Don exclaimed, a little breathless himself.

"Horses are always instinctively on alert," Mac explained. "Anything unexpected or unfamiliar will make them skittish, especially in an enclosure. Because of their herding instinct, if one horse becomes startled, the others are alarmed as well."

Somewhere on their right, a horse began to stamp its hooves nervously and trot slowly towards them, before picking up speed and breaking into a brisk canter. Feeling the ground rumble beneath them, both men paused. With a gasp, Don felt a gust of air fan over his face as the horse raced past them to join the rest of the flock.

"Whoa!" The galloping reminding him of his own runaway heartbeat. "Let's make a run for it before we get _flattened_."

Mac knew that abrupt movements or sudden noises would only startle the horses even more. "No, just stay close to me and don't panic," he replied calmly. "Even though we can't see them, they can still see us in the dark. In fact, they can feel the vibration of our footsteps through their hoofs."

"Sheesh, Mac," Don sighed, "since when do you know so much about horses?"

Somewhere nearby on their left, a horse nickered softly a few times, before snorting out loud twice.

_Chirr. Chirr._

Hearing Don inhale sharply in fear, Mac spun around, his senses alerted to the possibility of danger. If someone had heard the agitated horses, they could easily have decided to investigate the disturbance. Based on their encounters with the residents of Granville so far, it was not unthinkable that they could be both armed and hostile.

"What's wrong, Don?" he whispered. "Did you just hear someone?"

"My father made that noise whenever he read Sleepy Hollow to us kids."

Mac was quiet for a moment. "Now you're _kidding_ me, right?"

"Yup," Don lied, slightly embarrassed. "I just made that up."

"Good." Unable to resist, Mac raised his arm to glance at the faintly luminous dial on his father's watch. "Because it's actually _midnight_ right now," he lied.

"It is _not_ midnight!" Instinctively, Don reached out to slap the back of Mac's head. "Damn you, Mac! That's _exactly_ what my brother always used to do!"

"_Hey_!" Mac laughed briefly before lowering his voice again. "I need you need to stay focused here, Don. We don't want to get caught before we get back to that road."

"Whatever. Let's just get away from these horses, okay?"

Breaking away from Mac, Don raced ahead and ran straight into the fence on the other side of the paddock. With a groan, he clutched his injured shin once again.

"The mean streets back home are no match for the _minefield_ out here," he muttered to himself.

Taking care to avoid the electric wire, he then swung his legs wearily over the top and waited for Mac to catch up with him.

A dirt trail with two wheel tracks separated by tall tufts of grass ran alongside the outside of the paddock. In the dark, it was impossible to tell which direction would lead to a road, but a faint glow in the sky made them turn right. They trudged side-by-side for a while, their feet following the parallel tracks up over a small hill and around a sharp bend.

When they heard what sounded like a distant car engine, they froze and listened for a moment, before headlights suddenly flashed across the trees on either side of the trail. Tires skidded on the dirt as the police car raced towards them, and they spurted into the bushes to take cover behind a cluster of small tree.

"You think they saw us?" Don asked when the car had disappeared over the hill.

"They would've stopped if they had."

They stood listening intently for a while, before they became gradually aware of the heavy scent of freshly mown grass in the air. Sniffing the overwhelming fragrance, Don was instantly transported back to the baseball games and family cookouts of his childhood.

"I smelled this when we first arrived at the Travelodge," he exclaimed. "We must finally have come full circle and be close to the hotel again."

Mac turned around, looking up at the jet-black sky all around them. "In that case, the fire has finally been put out." Then he bent down to brush his hand across the blades of grass, all trimmed to just a couple of inches. The grass felt too even to have been grazed by pastured animals.

"Well, this certainly feels like a lawn," he concluded and stood up. "I think we're on someone's property. Maybe we'll finally get to a phone."

Don peered into the darkness ahead for a telltale light. "I don't see a house anywhere."

"Let's just keep going until we find a driveway."

The expansive lawn sloped gently down from the road, dipping slightly into a level plateau for a hundred yards before rising and falling smoothly again. For the first time, Mac was able to relax his step without stumbling, and he began to slow down. In the infinite darkness, it felt like he was getting nowhere inside a never-ending treadmill. By now, it was almost impossible for him to ignore his body urging him to stop. Feeling strangely lightheaded, he kept his hands out to maintain his balance.

Don, on the other hand, had picked up speed, grateful to be out of the wilderness at last. Unable to hear his footsteps in the trimmed grass, Mac kept losing track of the younger detective ahead of him.

"Wait up," he called out as he stopped to catch his breath once again. "Where the hell are you, Don?"

"Over here," Don's voiced floated back to him from somewhere on his right.

With a sigh, Mac veered to head in his direction. "Where's _here_?"

Hearing Mac's voice catching up behind him, Don called over his shoulder, "_Here's_ here, Mac."

"What the hell –" Mac was startled to suddenly walk into a tall fiberglass stick standing upright in the ground. Sliding his hand right up to its top, he discovered what felt like a sailcloth flag with the number nine sewn into its hemmed fabric.

"Whoa –!" Don suddenly cried out ahead of him, and Mac heard his frantic voice tumbled downwards below ground level.

"Are you okay, Don?" Mac dropped to his knees and felt his way cautiously across the grass towards him. "Where'd you go?"

"Would you believe it?" the detective called up to him from down below. "I fell into a moon crater." His grumbling sarcasm reassured Mac that he hadn't been hurt. "I'm sick and tired of being a human pinball."

Now Mac had reached the rough ridge of grass where the ground suddenly dropped away steeply. Expecting to find a rocky landslide, he was surprised when his fingers sifted through what could only be fine sand. For a moment, his mind raced to work out what was going on, before the realization finally struck him.

"Don, this _isn't_ a lawn. We're on a fairway, and you're in a sand trap."

"No kidding!" Don's voice called out from below as he crawled back up the side of the sandy slope. "This has to be the local golf course I was reading about back at the Travelodge. It's an 18-hole course with a signature island green and a slope rating of 126. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"I wouldn't know," Mac sighed, sitting down on the edge to reach down to him. "What the hell is a _slope rating_?"

Surprised, Don found Mac's hand and scrambled up to sit down next to him. "Why, it's the difference between the bogey and scratch course ratings. Don't tell me you didn't know that."

"_What_?" Mac was completely lost. "Since when do you know so much about golf_, _Don?"

"When we get back home, we'll swap stories over a couple of beers, okay?"

"Deal."

"Hmm." Don tried to recall the details of the brochure he had leafed through in the hotel room. "If only I could work out where exactly we are on the course. Fairway bunkers are normally only found on par 4 and par 5 holes."

"I can tell you we just passed the ninth hole. Does that help any?"

"Yup." In Don's mind, the golf course layout immediately clicked into place all around them. "That means the water hazard is right behind us, and the clubhouse is about half a mile beyond this bunker." He found it hard to contain his excitement. "Even if we have to break in, we should be able to get to a phone there!"

While Don jumped to his feet, Mac rose up with a weary groan. Yet the moment he stood upright, his knees buckled and he sat down again abruptly, startling himself. He struggled to get up again, but now exhaustion had shut his body down, and his limbs weren't obeying orders any longer.

Hearing a grunt behind him, Don turned around. "Hey, are you okay? What just happened?"

He knelt down and with his outstretched hand found Mac sitting on the ground. Realizing that he was about to fall over, Don threw one arm behind his back to keep him upright. Mac felt suspiciously warm under his touch, and he put his hand against his forehead.

"Oh shit," Don exclaimed, his anxiety rising a notch. "You've got a fever again."

"It's okay, really," Mac reassured him. "I'm just so damned tired, that's all."

Sitting down beside him, Don swung his legs over the side of the bunker and planted his feet in the sand. "No sweat. Let's just take a few minutes." He tried to pour renewed optimism into his voice. "Heck, we're _so_ close now. There's bound to be a phone at the clubhouse, right?"

They sat in silence for a while, staring sightlessly across the sandy void in front of them, while they waited for Mac to recover his strength. Don released his grip around his shoulder and bent down to scoop up a handful of sand. Grabbing his sleeve instead, he turned Mac's palm upwards, poured the sand into his open hand, and folded his fingers over it.

"Don't forget we're going on a weekend break with Jo and Stella this summer." With a smile, Don took a moment to imagine the four of them on a beach together. "I wonder. Have you ever heard either of them mention bikinis?"

He expected some kind of response, even a gruff one, but Mac wasn't listening. Instead, the sand slipped unnoticed through his fingers and drizzled down into Don's lap.

Don smile faded into a frown. "Are you all right? What's on your mind?"

Mac turned to face him. "Have you asked yourself what exactly we're doing here, Don?"

Don was taken aback to hear the sudden anger in his voice. "I'd think that was pretty obvious. We're running away from bad guys."

"No, I mean, what are we doing in Granville, _Henry's_ hometown?"

"We've been invited for Easter dinner at the old Pantone homestead?" he suggested lightly.

Yet Mac didn't acknowledge his attempt at humor. "Have we met anyone so far that made you believe _that_ was the case?"

Don hesitated a moment before replying. "You think Pantone is actually behind this, don't you?" he ventured.

"What, and you somehow _don't_?" Mac snapped at him.

"Hey! For _your_ sake – for _both_ our sakes – I'm trying very hard not to!"

Belatedly, Mac realized that he was taking his anger at himself out on Don instead. "Well, don't bother," he replied quietly. "Don't you for a second believe he didn't realize those agents were hostile. I made the mistake of underestimating him once before, when I tried to warn him about Williams, thinking he'd lost control. I should've realized that _never happened_."

"But _why_?" Don stared at him without understanding. "What aren't you telling me? What's going on, Mac?"

"For some reason, Henry thinks I betrayed him."

"What on earth makes you think that?"

"Because _Judas_ is the word of a religious man."

Don was quiet for a moment while he tried to work out what Mac meant. "Do you really _have_ to say weird creepy things like that in the dark?"

"I'm _so_ sorry, Don." Mac turned to stare glumly at his friend in the dark. If Pantone really was behind this, he didn't like their odds of escaping the Director's wrath on his home ground. Even if he couldn't save himself, he vowed to make it his priority to get Don out of danger. "You should _never_ have been dragged into this mess."

"Well, whenever you're ready, we'll head for clubhouse and get ourselves out of this mess again."

"No, I'm slowing us down. You're going to have to leave me here."

Don wanted desperately to prove Mac wrong, but he didn't want to gamble their lives on it either. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly, pulling the gun from his sweatpants to push it into Mac's hand. "I'll go look for a phone and then I'm coming straight back for you."

Instead of accepting the gun, Mac reached out to grab ahold of Don's neck, pulling him towards him until their foreheads touched.

"No, you _listen_ to me, Don!" Mac's hand tightened its grip on Don's nape. "You've always had my back, which is more than I could _ever_ ask of anyone. This time, though, I want you to think of yourself first. Whether you find a phone or not, I want you to go wide - and I mean _really_ wide. You need to get the hell out of Granville, do you understand? Just keep running and don't look back. You're not _safe_ here."

"I'll leave you here, Mac." Don rose unwillingly to his feet. "But don't you _dare_ tell me not to come back."

"Goddamn it!" Mac hissed, wishing he could get up and shake some sense into his friend. "Just do as I tell you! Henry has told everyone you're _expendable_. Please! You're no good to anyone _dead_!"

"Well, neither are you," Don replied defiantly.

"Given who we're up against here, _I_ wouldn't come back for _you_, Don!"

Recognizing Mac's desperate lie, Don didn't bother replying.

"Please tell Jo I should've …" Mac added quietly, betraying his conviction that they would never meet again. "Tell Jo and Stella that I meant to …" His voice trailed off into a deep sigh. "What _exactly_ am I trying to say here?"

"Tell them yourself." Before setting off, Don tried to find a silver lining to keep Mac's spirits up while he was gone. "At least Pantone told everyone _you're_ not expendable. That has to be a good sign, right?"

"You're quite right." Mac knew it could only mean the Director intended to kill him himself. "It's a _very_ good sign. And that's why you should keep the gun, Don."

"If you say so." With a heavy heart, Don pushed the gun back into his waistband before making his way around the bunker to head in the direction of the golf course clubhouse.

Mac sat listening to Don's footfall recede into the darkness until he was enclosed by complete silence once again. As soon as Don was out of earshot, he let himself roll backwards onto the ground with a groan. By now, his dizziness made even lying flat on his back feel nauseating, like standing on the deck of a ship in a gale. Slipping one hand over his eyes, he grabbed ahold of a tuft of grass with the other to anchor himself to the ground.

While he lay there, he listened to the breeze pick up in the treetops nearby and thought he heard a faint rippling of water somewhere behind him. Glancing up into the nothingness above him, he began to notice tiny stars appear, disappear and reappear as the dense clouds were dispersed by the rising wind. Yet although Mac was familiar with most constellations, he failed to recognize any of them in the sky above. To his alarm, he realized this had to mean they were merely figments of his fevered imagination.

He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to stay alert, which merely caused the nonexistent stars to multiply and explode across his vision. Now millions of snowflakes were cascading down from the sky, inverting the inky blackness around him into an eye-watering brightness. Squinting up into the sparkling curtain of snow, he was startled to see a lone figure approaching him through the blizzard, apparently walking amidst a pack of howling hounds.

Opening his eyes with a gasp, Mac realized he had finally heard the sound that he had been listening for ever since he and Don had left the hotel. He cursed his carelessness for having left the bloody towel behind in the parking lot. His heart hammered in his chest while he harnessed the very last of his strength to roll onto his side and scramble to his feet. With one hand still on the ground, he skidded across the grass as his feet tried to find traction, and careered into the dark before he was even completely upright.

He was grateful that the fairway was both level and newly mown, or he would have stumbled and fallen at this speed. Instinctively, he headed towards the lake Don had mentioned earlier, evident by the sound of water lapping gently against the shore. Mac realized he had no hope of outrunning the dogs, but every minute of diversion would be a gift to Don, heading in the opposite direction. Stopping briefly to glance over his shoulder, he saw what looked like a dozen flashlights gaining rapidly on him at a distance of several hundred yards.

When he sensed a sudden humid coolness in the air, he immediately slowed down to avoid crashing headlong into the lake. Soft mud now squelched under his feet, and he threw his arms up to push his way through a wall of rushes and reeds. He gasped to find himself suddenly standing knee-deep water that was much colder than he had expected. Realizing he wouldn't be able to move very fast this far into the lake, he retreated to follow the shoreline in ankle-deep water instead.

At first, Mac tried to walk as fast as possible through the water without sloshing too loudly. Yet the approaching pack of dogs were barking so noisily themselves, it made no difference any longer. Instead, he picked up the pace and covered a hundred yards before he had to stop for breath, feeling lightheaded again. By now the dogs had reached the water's edge, and Mac heard the handlers call out to each other that they were splitting up. He decided to head back to the shore, realizing that he would probably drown if he were bayed by the dogs while still in the water.

He emerged from the lake to push his way back through the vegetation, startling a nest of loons, whose squawking immediately caught the dogs' attention. Here the embankment was much steeper than expected, and Mac found himself trying to scale a wall of mud now. Fortunately, his feet found foothold on the gnarled root of a tree, and he finally managed to push himself up over the edge and onto the grass.

As he lay on his stomach, heaving for air again, flashlight beams lit up the crown of an old oak tree straight ahead of him. The yapping dogs were so close now that he wondered if there was any point in pushing on. Yet the thought of Don made him crawl the final yards towards the tree, snatching a branch off the ground along the way. Once he was on his feet again, he backed up against the trunk, wielding the branch with both hands before him to keep the rapidly approaching dogs at bay.

Bracing himself for whatever fate awaited him now, Mac was deeply grateful that Don was no longer with him. He had always considered himself a loner, priding himself on his self-reliance and ability to deal with any problem on his own. Yet for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun, he felt utterly _alone,_ and he realized that his heart belonged together with the rest of his team.

"Freeze! Don't move! Drop your weapon!" several voices shouted at him at the same time.

Mac squinted as at least three flashlights homed in on his face, instantly blinding him. He kept the branch pointed at the dogs he could hear snarling ferociously at his feet, straining at their leashes to get at him. Now two shadows approached from either side, and a pair of strong hands yanked the branch away from him. The next moment, several arms reached out to restrain him against the tree trunk before he was thrown to the ground with a thud, knocking the wind out of him. With a gasp, he felt someone's knee on his back as his arms were wrenched behind him and handcuffs were clicked onto his wrists.

Ignoring the pandemonium all around him, Mac spat out the grass in his mouth and focused his energy solely on heaving oxygen back into his lungs. His right arm throbbed mercilessly behind his back, preventing him from passing out from sheer exhaustion. Above the raucous barking and ceaseless shouting, he heard the crackle of a police radio somewhere above his head.

"Sheriff, you can call off the alert now," a deputy reported dutifully. "We found Taylor on the golf course near Loon Lake."

"Copy that," came the sheriff's reply on the radio. "I'll be right over. Are you sure it's him now?"

A flashlight swept down at Mac's face, and he clenched his eyes shut. "Yup. He still needs that towel."

"Fine. Round up the dogs and find the other one. I take it we've still got a couple boys watching the clubhouse?"

"Yup. He won't get far."

"Duct tape," a familiar voice suddenly called out above the commotion. "Did anybody think to bring duct tape?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw the local men step aside to make room for three pairs of approaching feet. Stopping right beside his head, one pair now turned to face the other two. Glancing up, he could only make out Jensen's gaunt face staring glumly down at him.

"I don't want him talking to the sheriff or any of his men, okay?" Pantone told his agents in a hushed voice.

Now Mac felt a foot nudge against his shoulder before he was pushed roughly over onto his back. With a sharp cry of pain, he tried desperately to roll onto his side to relieve his injured arm handcuffed beneath him, but McKay's foot on his chest kept him in place.

"You'd think that as a Marine, you'd know you can't outrun dogs that smell _blood_." Pantone squatted down beside him, a disappointed frown on his face.

"I see you got yourself quite a shiner, just like Jerry. How very Old Testament." Clucking his tongue, the Director grabbed Mac's chin and turned his head to get a clearer look. "Well, it's about time you were taught that what goes around comes around." He sighed deeply. "You know, I _really_ thought I made it clear to everyone you weren't expendable."

His mouth completely dry, Mac struggled for a moment to reply, but Pantone waited patiently for him to speak. "You'll want to use shorter words around here, Henry," he finally gasped.

Pantone's glasses flashed at him, reflecting one of the many flashlight beams shining across the scene.

"No problem, Mac."

Rising wearily to his feet, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, as Mac had seen him do a hundred times before. He removed his glasses to polish them meticulously before slipping them back onto his nose. Then he pointed to one of the dog handlers and motioned impatiently for the man to approach him. He grabbed ahold of the spare leash the handler had draped around his neck and yanked it off him. Holding the leash and handkerchief up to his men, he pointed down at Mac lying at his feet.

"Gag him."

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Chapter 16 - "The Betrayal" <strong>- Mac finally finds out what is going on - but is it too late?


	16. The Betrayal

**Author's note:** Thanks to everyone who sent a kind review to keep me going.

Mac is definitely the sharpest tool in the shed, but the odds are so stacked against him, he's going to need the help of someone else mentioned throughout this story. Any guesses as to whom I'm thinking of?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16 – "The Betrayal"<strong>

* * *

><p>The Ford Interceptor with the large gold star and 'to protect and serve' stenciled on its side ambled slowly across the golf course fairway. Unhurriedly, it overtook the flock of deputies and dog handlers walking back to their cars parked along the roadside. With a wave of his hand, the Sheriff acknowledged the fists being pounded enthusiastically on his rooftop. Once he reached the clubhouse parking lot, however, he revved the engine and churned gravel as he sped onto Route 145.<p>

Since his career had taken him down every inch of road in the area, he drove through the inky darkness with exceptional confidence for a man his age. The twin headlight beams swept across a dizzying blur of trees and shrubbery hurtling past his all-terrain vehicle. He didn't even slow down when he passed the still smoldering Travelodge, but instead tightened his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

The mood inside the patrol car was somber, and his four passengers had not uttered a word since leaving the golf course. By now the Sheriff had realized that the two DHS agents were not exactly big talkers, and he gave up trying to engage them in friendly chitchat. Instead, he glanced up at his old friend in the rearview mirror. Seated diagonally behind him, Pantone was staring glumly out of the window, characteristically unforthcoming.

"What's the matter with you, Hank?" the Sheriff asked with a frown. "You never used to be so out of breath. New York City smog finally slowing you down?"

Pantone stretched out his arms and suppressed a yawn. "Just feeling my age, that's all. You're not exactly sprightly yourself these days, Stan."

"Clogged arteries," the Sheriff replied grimly. "Would you believe it?"

"Actually, I _would_." Fanning his face with his hand, Pantone exchanged disapproving glances with McKay sitting beside him. "It smells like an ashtray in here. I can't believe no one ever complained before."

"None of my other backseat passengers ever _dared _to."

"You're dicing with death there, Stan," the Director growled. "Those things will kill you one of these days."

The Sheriff glanced up at his mirror again and smiled. "Youth is wasted on the young, Hank."

"Ain't that the truth," Pantone sighed and turned his head to watch the nascent moon rise over the treetops.

They drove past a string of farms dotted along Schoharie Creek, which had flooded its banks and washed out a downstream bridge earlier in the day. Then the road curved around a massive concrete reservoir before continuing along the perimeter of a fenced-off bluestone quarry. A few minutes later, the woods and farmland gave way to a strip mall and the first few residences of the town of Granville.

"We got a call from the troopers in Oneida two hours ago," the Sheriff announced. "Apparently, your man back there tried to contact the NYPD."

"Now _why_ doesn't that surprise me?" Pantone replied wearily. "I told you not to underestimate him, didn't I? I've made that mistake often enough myself, and so have my agents. Apparently, he shot Dougherty - and tied up McKay here - using just his _left_ hand." He turned to glance down at Mac lying unconscious on a tarpaulin behind him. "I'd still like to know how the hell he managed _that_."

"Well, lucky for us, the state police were busy and passed the investigation on to us. Now I've sent everyone on a wild-goose chase up north, complete with roadblocks, checkpoints, spike strips, you name it. Albany even dispatched helicopters to follow the I-90 east and west, searching for two non-existent vehicles."

Pantone nodded appreciatively. "Hold them off for me a little longer, will you?"

"Sure thing, but I can't keep everyone out of Granville _forever_. How much time do you need?"

"What I've got planned for Taylor will take some time," Pantone glanced down at the stopwatch function on his wristwatch, "but we'll be done by tomorrow evening, I promise. Then we won't be any more trouble to you."

"Fine by me," the Sheriff grumbled. "You realize you're leaving me with a hell of a lot of explaining to do, don't you?"

"You'll come up with something, Stan. You always do."

They drove by the church of St. John the Baptist, a historic bluebrick building with an imposing stone belltower. Both men turned to look at the marquee sign on its front lawn, 'Easter Sunday: 8, 9:30 and 11 a.m. worship services.' When Pantone read the lettering added below, 'Easter comes once a year - How often do you?', he sank down in his seat with a guilt-ridden sigh.

"That practically had your name on it, Hank," the Sheriff laughed, watching him in his rearview mirror. "Let me know which service you're attending, and I'll join you. Anything else I can do for you while you're still in town?"

"I'll need help getting rid of Taylor's body when we've finished with him," Pantone replied after a moment's thought. "But none of that shallow grave nonsense, you hear? Believe me, you do_ not_ want this man getting into the food chain around here. You'll have the health department coming around asking _all sorts_ of awkward questions."

"No problem. We'll think of something. We've got the quarry."

Now Route 145 rounded the St. John cemetery before bending westward to intersect with Park Drive at the Granville city park. Signposted as East Main Street now, the rural road gradually morphed into a tree-lined avenue in a quiet residential neighborhood. After driving well within the speed limit for a few minutes, the Ford's dipped headlights picked out a squat brick building on their left. Pulling into a horseshoe driveway, the Sheriff proceeded slowly across the deserted parking lot of the Granville Police Station.

"We'll bring him through the sallyport entrance in the fleet garage out in back."

They froze when they saw a dark-blue state police SUV parked in front of the carport.

"Looks like you've got _company_," Jensen hissed at the Sheriff, before turning to look at Pantone behind him. "_Now_ what?"

"Goddamn it!" The Sheriff thumped his fist on the steering wheel. "They're supposed to be liaising with my patrol watch commander, who's heading for the I-90 as we speak." He reached down to the radio console by his seat. "Yo, Pete!" he barked into the radio. "What the hell are the troopers doing here? I thought we agreed to send everyone up north."

"Hey, we _did_, Stan," came his captain's defensive reply. "These guys just stopped by to use the rest rooms first."

The Sheriff turned around to look at the two men sitting behind him. "There's just no way we can take him through there now. There's a photo description of him circulating from here to Ontario."

"I don't see the problem." McKay smirked as he pointed over his shoulder at Mac. "I'd say he's pretty unrecognizable right now."

Pantone gave his agent a sharp look of disapproval. "What, you somehow think him being _gagged_ won't raise eyebrows out here? No, we'll go around and bring him in through dispatch, if we have to. It's got secured access."

The Sheriff drove slowly around the building and reversed into his own reserved parking space beside the front entrance. As he climbed out of the car, he pulled a cigarette from a packet in his shirt pocket and cupped his hands to light up. Casting furtive glances at the moonlit parking lot, the two DHS agents rounded the police vehicle to raise its rear liftgate.

When he felt hands tug at his arms and ankles, Mac stirred groggily and realized that he must have passed out at some point. The last thing he remembered clearly was resisting the agents' efforts to gag him on the golf course. Now a dull ache reminded him that the pointless struggle had merely reopened the cut above his eye. Slinging their arms around his back, the two agents pulled him upright and left him sitting on the edge of the SUV's cargo hold.

"On your feet, Taylor."

Still dazed, Mac remained seated, wondering how exactly he was going to do that. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the asphalt beneath his feet in order to stop the parking lot from spinning around him. The agents watched as his bleary eyes drifted sideways and he began to slump backwards towards the tarpaulin. Jensen quickly grabbed ahold of his sweatshirt to keep him upright, and Pantone bent down to put a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Sheesh, just _look_ at you," the Director exhaled, taking a closer look at his eyebrow. "We really ought to get you cleaned up."

"This man is in no shape to walk." Behind them, the Sheriff waved the cigarette in his hand dismissively. "We're going to have to carry him."

"He'll be fine." Pantone motioned for his agents to help Mac up. "This guy is as tough as they come."

While McKay hauled Mac up by his left elbow, Jensen slipped his arm under his right armpit and snaked his hand up to grab the back of his neck. Together, the three of them followed the Sheriff and Pantone through the double doors and into the empty vestibule. Mac tried to catch a glimpse of where he was being taken, but Jensen's firm grip on his neck kept him staring down at his own shambling feet.

"Helen!" The Sheriff rapped his knuckles on the bulletproof glass of the dispatch window. When a tired-looking, middle-aged woman with hoop earring appeared, he lowered his voice. "Where are the troopers now?"

She pointed to her right. "In the patrol squad room stocking up on coffee and donuts. They're just about to leave."

"Good grief!" The Sheriff rolled his eyes and glanced over at Pantone. "Now we're _catering_ this snipe hunt, as well? Who else is around at this hour?"

She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. "Just Pete and a couple of sergeants shooting the breeze back in the detectives' office."

"Good. Open the door, Helen. We're bringing this man in through here."

The woman flicked a switch to open one of the two sliding security doors to her dispatch center. Her hand flew up over her mouth when she saw the agents enter with Mac, but she had the sense not to comment in the presence of the Sheriff. Instead, she quickly crossed the crowded little room to open the security door on the opposite wall.

Mac strained against the hand clamped against his neck to look for something – _anything_ - to rekindle his fading hope of escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw filing cabinets, desktop computers and a large 911 mapping system on the dispatch consoles. Before he was taken out of the room again, he caught sight of a dozen video monitors showing empty police station offices, cells and corridors. His heart sank to see the patrol squad room already deserted, a looted donut box abandoned on the center table.

They continued down a long windowless hallway adorned with commemorative plaques and passed a large, open-plan office with two adjoined interview rooms. Here the captain and two sergeants sat slouched back with their legs sprawled across one of the desks. When they saw the Sheriff and Director stroll by with their handcuffed prisoner trailing behind them, they jumped to their feet. They raised their hands for celebratory high-fives with Pantone's agents, but were ignored by the two grim-faced men. Offended, they made several disrespectful hand gestures behind the agents' backs, which McKay and Jensen reciprocated wordlessly over their shoulders.

"Settle down now, boys," Pantone growled without even turning his head, startling everyone behind him apart from Mac.

When they arrived at the detention at the end of the hallway, the Sheriff waved at an overhead camera and waited for Helen to open the secured pass door. Behind the door, the detention was pitch dark, apart from a single shaft of moonlight falling from a skylight window in the center. The Sheriff threw a switch and a grid of fluorescent lights hummed to life above their heads. Blinking against the brightness, Mac found himself being steered past a row of 6-by-6-foot cells towards a much larger group holding cell at the back.

In passing, Pantone pointed at a lumpy blanket on a bench in one of the smaller cells.

"No witnesses, Stan."

"Who've we got under here, then?" One of the sergeants unlocked the cell door, and the Sheriff snatched up the blanket to reveal a very inebriated young man. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Leisure Suit Larry." He ordered one of his sergeants to drive the man home. "Guess what, Larry? You're in luck. The Easter bunny's giving you a get-out-of-jail-free pass."

Turning to watch, Mac could smell the man's boozy protests at having been woken up. Unfortunately, he was far too drunk even to notice the only other prisoner in the detention. Once the young man had been escorted out through the sallyport exit, Mac was shoved backwards through the gate of the largest cell and backed up against the wall.

Mac had vowed to remain on his feet once the agents let go of him, determined to show that he hadn't been defeated. Yet the sheer weight of his exhaustion made his knees buckle, and he fought to keep his balance as gravity pulled him down to the floor. Now he sat facing the six men watching him intently, his hands wedged between his back and the concrete wall behind him.

Making a conscious effort to avoid their hostile glare, he instead studied the inch-wide, painted steel bars that enclosed the holding cells. Both secured doors to the detention appeared to be controlled remotely, and the dome surveillance cameras on the ceiling above meant that Helen was probably watching. He turned his head and noticed that the metal bench on the wall beside him had a built-in handcuff rail. When his eyes fell on the floor drain down by his feet, he fought to keep his rising sense of panic in check.

The captain squatted down in front of Mac to take a closer look. "So _this_ is the guy who's been terrorizing all of New York City." He glanced over his shoulder at Pantone, standing beside the open cell gate. "We heard you raised the NTAS alert down there a couple of weeks ago."

"That's right. That was all because of _him_," the Director answered truthfully.

"There's something I don't quite understand." The Sheriff flicked his cigarette stub onto the floor and squashed it under the sole of his shoe. "Isn't it a bit _strange_ that he would try to contact the NYPD? I mean, him being a terrorist and all." Glancing down, he was surprised to see Mac nodding his emphatic agreement.

Pantone shrugged his shoulders and leant back against the steel bars. "Who _knows_ what's going on in this guy's head right now," he sighed and threw out his hands. "I guess he probably figured the NYPD would be softer than DHS on his kind. Not like you boys around here. _You're_ the real patriots in this country."

"We read you loud and clear." With a grin, the captain tapped his finger against the side of his nose. "But why have you gagged him?" he asked Jensen, rising to his feet again.

"Erm …" The agent looked to Pantone for a plausible explanation.

"Oh, I _get_ it now," the captain added brightly, slapping his hand on his forehead. "He _bites,_ like in that movie."

Equally surprised by the suggestion, Mac's and Pantone's eyes met for a brief second. While Mac groaned and rolled his eyes, Pantone bit his lower lip to keep from laughing.

"Erm, yes." Jensen gave the captain a thin smile. "It's just a precaution."

Now the sergeant bent down to study Mac's face critically. "Somehow he looks different than the terrorists you see on TV. Maybe it's because he doesn't have a beard? Does he even speak English?"

Closing his eyes, Mac thumped his head against the wall in exasperation, thereby answering the man's question.

"Well, come to mention it," Pantone allowed a rare smile to play on his lips, "he _does _actually have a slight accent. _Chicago_."

Hearing his words, Mac's eyes flew open and he shot the Director a withering glance.

The sergeant nodded grimly. "Oh, so he's _homegrown_, is he?" he added with a shudder. "The worst kind." Seeing the loathing in the man's eyes, Mac quickly tilted his body sideways and narrowly avoided spit landing on his shoulder. "We've got boys _dying_ in the _desert_ because of the likes of you!"

Mac stamped his foot on the floor in protest before he turned his eyes imploringly to Pantone.

Recognizing the injustice of his frustration, the Director decided it was time to change the subject. "Any news on our other fugitive?" he asked the captain. "I take it he didn't head for the clubhouse, after all."

"No, the boys found his jacket on the bank of the Schoharie," Pete replied smugly. "It looks like he tried to cross and was swept away by the current. For over a mile downstream, the dogs weren't able to pick up a scent on either bank."

At the captain's words, Pantone's face froze into a grimace. "Maybe he left it there to make it _look_ like he tried to cross the river. Has that occurred to you boys? Maybe he went _upstream_, towards the dam." He glanced down at Mac in exasperation. _Would you believe what I'm up against here?_ his eyes confided silently, making Mac turn his head away in disgust.

"Now, why the _hell_ would he do that?" the captain countered, his hands on his hips. "It's a dead end. He'd have to scale a 120-foot high concrete wall to get anywhere."

"_You_ know that and _I_ know that," the Director growled slowly, "but _he_ didn't know that. It was _dark_ out there, remember?" Impatiently, he held out his hand to the Sheriff. "Hand me your phone, Stan, I'm taking over. I want all of your men _and_ the dog handlers called back in. _Now_." He turned to address the captain. "You're going to check both riverbanks right from the dam down to the bridge."

"C'mon, Hank, that's _eighteen_ miles," the Sheriff interrupted while he reluctantly fished his phone out of his pocket. "What would a city slicker know about mountain rivers, anyway? We had a couple of experienced fly fisherman drown in the Schoharie last month."

Listening to their conversation, Mac was suddenly reminded of something Don had told him at the warehouse, and his anxiety for the detective's life diminished slightly.

With a firm shake of his head, Pantone stood his ground. "Have your men bring me his body, _then_ I'll believe he drowned." Grabbing the phone from the Sheriff's hand, he turned to address the captain again. "I assume everyone has _this_ number, right? Good. I'm putting you in charge, so go round up everyone again."

"But he _did _drown, Hank," the Sheriff protested as the captain left. "I'll stake my reputation on it."

Pantone turned to face him. "That's really not saying much, is it, Stan?"

For a moment, everyone in the room watched with bated breath while the two old men eyed each other angrily.

"This is really about your father, isn't it, Hank?" the Sheriff finally suggested.

"My _father_?" Pantone exclaimed in disbelief. "What does _this_ have to do with my father?"

"You never thought I could fill his shoes as sheriff."

Staring at his friend, the hard glint in Pantone's eyes softened. "I seem to have a _point_ there, Stan," he finally sighed, patting the Sheriff on the back.

Now everyone's attention turned back to Mac, temporarily forgotten on the floor behind them. Mac's brows creased when he saw the sergeant lace his fingers and turn his palms outwards to crack his knuckles.

"You want us to rough him up for you?" he offered the Director with a sneer. "We've got our own local specialty. I'm sure we could teach even _your_ boys a trick or two."

Pantone shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks," he replied and stepped between Mac and his hostile audience. "There'll be no need for any of that. _Nobody_ touches this man." Pointing down at Mac behind him, he turned to look everyone in the eye, including his own agents. "And I really mean _nobody_. He's _mine_."

"What!" the Sheriff protested angrily. "He _killed_ two local men and one of your agents, and put two of my men in hospital. _And_ he set fire to the Travelodge." He pounded his fist on his open hand and pointed a trembling finger down at Mac. "Surely, you're going to make him _pay_ for what he's done!"

Pantone's face darkened. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. He'll pay with his life, I promise."

"So what're you going to do to him, then?"

"What we at Homeland Security are always being accused of doing."

"Ah!" The Sheriff nodded knowingly before his smile slowly faded. "Remind me again, Hank. What's that exactly?"

Despite himself, Mac found himself holding his breath as he waited for the Director's reply.

"I'm going to lock him up and throw away the key." He turned to address Mac with a bleak smile. "How about that, Mac? You're going to spend the rest of your life in jail, after all."

"What? That's _all_?" The Sheriff couldn't believe his ears. "That doesn't make sense. You just asked me to bury him _tomorrow_."

Ignoring the Sheriff behind him, Pantone kept his eyes locked relentlessly on Mac's. "Now you want to know how long you've got, right? Well, I spoke to Jonathan before we left Trinity." He glanced down at his wristwatch. "Without your medication, he gives you until tomorrow _noon_, at the very latest. After that, there'll be no turning back for you."

While the Director spoke, Mac's eyes kept darting uneasily away from his face to look at everyone's hands. Having guessed what he was searching for, Pantone squatted down to put his hand on his shoulder. "You're looking for another balloon, aren't you? Well, guess what? There _aren't_ any more. Jerry only ever made three. But we don't actually _need_ more balloons, do we?"

Mac looked away in frustration, but Pantone grabbed his chin and pulled his head back.

"We've got everything we need …" He placed his hand against Mac's sweatshirt and tapped his chest lightly with his index finger. "… right in _here_. You and I are going to sit back and just let Jerry finish what he started. _Quid pro quo_."

"What! Balloons?" the Sheriff exclaimed, exchanging confused glances with his sergeant. "What the hell are you talking about, Hank? Did you just threaten this man with _balloons_? It sounds to me like _you're_ ones who've gone soft on terrorists!"

"Don't fret yourself about it, Stan. This man happens to be sick." Pantone reached out to touch Mac's forehead. Mac turned his head against the wall but couldn't prevent the Director from verifying his fever. "_Very_ sick. He won't survive tomorrow."

The Director rose wearily to his feet and paused briefly to catch his breath.

"Stan, I'm going to ask you to do me a favor tomorrow, once I'm done here. A _very_ big favor."

"Sure thing, Hank. What are friends for?"

Pantone paused, looking thoughtful. "That's right, Stan. What _are_ friends for?" He smiled down at Mac, who flared his nostrils in contempt. "Good, I'm going to hold you to that promise, Stan."

"So, what favor do you want me to do for you?"

The Sheriff's phone suddenly rang in Pantone's hand. "I'll let you know when the time is up." He motioned for his agents to follow him as he left the holding cell to take the call.

"This is somehow _personal_, isn't it, Hank?" the Sheriff called out after him. "What _exactly_ has this guy done to piss you off like this?"

"He killed Jack," Pantone replied over his shoulder as he strode past the row of smaller cells with Jensen and McKay.

"_What!_"

Both the Sheriff's and Mac's eyes widened in surprise at the revelation. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, trying to fathom the implications of the Director's accusation.

The Sheriff's face grew ashen as he recalled the terrible events that had shaken the nation and caused Jack Pantone's death. "But Jack died on 9/11, _eleven_ years ago!" he turned to shout to Pantone. "Are you _seriously_ telling me you've been chasing this dirtbag ever since _then_?"

The Director turned briefly to nod before he resumed his phone conversation with the captain.

"I can still see Jack sitting on our backyard swing set. He was such a sweet little boy."

Hearing the Sheriff's quietly spoken words, Mac's eyes slid apprehensively back to look at him. He began to shake his head repeatedly, desperate to speak in his defense, but no words would pass through the handkerchief in his mouth.

"All he ever wanted to do was be a policeman like his daddy and granddaddy."

The emotions brimming inside the old man began to fill Mac with dread. He saw the Sheriff's fists begin to curl and uncurl as he inched closer to him. Mac shook his head more vigorously and kept glancing over the Sheriff's shoulder for help. Yet Pantone had his back turned, in deep conversation with his agents now.

"Why you little …"

The Sheriff dropped to his knees before Mac, a look of blind fury on his face. Mac raised his knee and kicked out his leg to keep the old man from getting at him.

"… un-American ..."

Now the Sheriff lunged himself at Mac, knocking his head against the wall. In an attempt to loosen the man's grip on his throat, Mac let himself slid sideways onto the floor, pulling the Sheriff down with him.

"… son-of-a-bitch!"

Mac grunted and stomped his feet against the wall, trying frantically to alert Pantone. The Sheriff put his knee on his chest to hold him down, which made Mac gasp involuntarily and drew a corner of the handkerchief down into his windpipe. His breath now literally caught in his throat, Mac immediately stopped struggling. His eyes widened as the now familiar stars began to dance around the periphery of his vision.

"_Hey_, _hey_! _Stan_!" Suddenly Pantone's face appeared before him, and the Sheriff was hauled off him by the two agents. "I appreciate the sentiment, but let _me_ take care of things from here on. Go home, get some rest, and meet me at church tomorrow."

"Help me get the gag off him," the Director then shouted to his men. "He's going to choke!" Mac felt Jensen's fingers scrabble on his cheeks, and with a hard tug the agent managed to pull the leash down to his neck. Pantone immediately snatched his handkerchief from his mouth. Yet Mac's throat was completely dry now, and air still wouldn't pass through his windpipe. Pantone watched with alarm as Mac's eyes rolled back in his head and his feet began twitching.

"Quick!" he shouted to McKay, pointing towards the hallway outside the holding cell. "Get him some water from the cooler over there!"

Together, they raised his head and splashed a cupful of water at his mouth, spilling most of it down his front. With a gasp, Mac arched his back and inhaled loudly. Pantone remained seated beside him on the floor to make sure he was breathing normally again.

"Moving along a little fast there, weren't we?" he told Mac quietly. "We're going to take it nice and easy from now on."

Still gulping for air, Mac just stared up at the ceiling while he waited for his heaving stomach to settle again.

"I can't believe that just happened." Pantone shook his head regretfully. "Apparently, no one listens to me around here. I'm going to have to spend the night in here watching over you myself, aren't I? My own private little Easter vigil."

"_You_ _son-of-a-bitch_!" Mac replied hoarsely, having finally found his voice again. "I can't believe _any_ of this is happening! You've obviously _completely_ lost your mind!"

"Oh really? And what exactly makes you think that?"

"Call off the hunt for Detective Flack _immediately_. He has _nothing_ to do with this. Just let the man _go_."

"C'mon, Mac," Pantone replied with a sigh, "you _know_ I can't do that."

"Yes, damn it, you _can_! If anyone can, _you_ can. He'd be getting away from these _idiots_ right now, if _you_ hadn't decided to interfere! You have no right do any of this. Keeping me locked up in here is entirely pointless. I feel fine, so just let me go."

"We both know you're _not_ fine, Mac. Without your medication, you're going to suffer a slow, agonizing death."

"Well, _guess_ what, you lunatic?" Mac snapped back. "I've missed a dose _before_."

"So I heard." Pantone nodded thoughtfully. "This time around, though, you won't be so lucky. You've got _twice_ as many spores in your lungs now. "

"Why the hell are you doing this to me? What have I done to you? I admit I killed Williams, but I _didn't_ kill Jack."

"You killed me."

"Henry, listen up!" Mac shouted, having heard the accusation once too often now. "I have a news flash for you. _You're_. _Not_. _Dead_. Period. End of discussion. Case closed. So _stop_ telling everyone otherwise!"

"_You're_ the reason that I'm dying."

Mac took a long, hard look at the Director, wondering how exactly he was going to get his point across. "Today I've had people think I gave your father a _heart attack_ 30 years ago. And that I somehow brought the _Towers_ down on your son on 9/11. And now you're telling me I caused your _cancer_? Just who the hell do you think I am? A horseman of the apocalypse? No wonder everyone you talk to ends up wanting to _kill_ me."

Pantone looked thoughtful again, but didn't reply.

"You're quite insane_,_ you know that, don't you, Henry?" Mac continued, lowering his voice to speak as calmly as he could. "Telling everyone that I'm an Al Qaeda terrorist."

"I didn't _actually_ say that."

"Yes, you did. You said I killed Jack. And the Sheriff damned nearly killed _me_ for it, just now."

"Well, you _did_ kill Jack."

"But _how_ exactly could I have done that? On that day, Jack died in a burning building, trying to rescue the people trapped inside. I was literally fifteen blocks away, desperately looking for Claire."

Pantone crossed his arms defensively and leaned his back against the wall. Their conversation was heading in a direction almost too painful for him to discuss. "That's _not_ actually what happened, Mac."

"What _are_ you talking about?" Mac exclaimed, exasperated to be told he had lost his grip on reality once again. "Don't you think I remember _everything_ that happened that day? I still wake up at night in a cold sweat remembering the details. And we've spoken about this _hundreds_ of times since then. How can you possibly believe I've suddenly forgotten?"

Pantone took a deep breath before replying. "No, what I mean is, that's not what happened to _Jack_. He was no hero."

"But you've got a Heroes Medal of Valor to prove that he _was_. You showed it to me yourself at the Memorial Service last year."

"Oh, that's just Roberts trying to make me feel better." Pantone laughed ruefully. "He and I always knew Jack didn't actually deserve it."

Mac stared at him. "What do you mean, Jack didn't _deserve_ his medal?"

"Oh, _c'mon_, Mac!" he replied impatiently, rolling his eyes. "Didn't it surprise you _at all_ that someone like Jack would go and do a selfless thing like that?"

Closing his eyes, Mac thought for a while before finally replying, "Honestly, I never gave it a thought. _Nothing_ about that day ever made sense to me. Still doesn't."

Pantone's face darkened. "A lot of people did a lot of senseless things that day, but what Jack did completely _devastated_ me."

Mac opened his eyes and saw the Director gripping the bench with his trembling hands, his head turned away. When he looked back, Mac saw to his astonishment that the older man appeared to be on the verge of tears. He decided to give him a moment to compose himself before pressing on.

"All of this," Mac began again gently after a few minutes, "the balloons, everything, this all happened because of something _we_ talked about at the sports bar two weeks ago, didn't it?"

"Yes, that's right," came Pantone's tight-lipped reply.

Mac waited in vain for more of an explanation. "Well, _what_ did we talk about then?" he finally asked, exasperated. "You _know_ I don't remember anything from that evening."

"C'mon, Mac, _think_!" Pantone snapped at him. "You already know what we talked about. Much to my astonishment, we had the _exact_ _same_ conversation twice. Nearly word-for-word. Once at the sports bar, and once at the coffee shop. You said the exact same things _twice_. It was just ... _uncanny!_"

"Sweet Jesus," Mac sighed, disappointed to still not understand what was going on. "So, you're telling me that I'm just _that_ predictable?"

"Hah!" Staring down at him, the Director gave an anguished laugh."No, I'm telling you that you're that _sincere_, Mac. You've always been _completely_ up front with me. That's why all of this is so painful! I really hadn't expected _you _of all people to betray me."

"Hey, wait!" Mac protested indignantly. "That can't be right. I happen to remember _everything_ we talked about at the coffee shop. Hard not to, since it was the most mindboggling conversation I've ever had. You told me you were terminally ill, _and_ that your lungs had been contaminated with asbestos on 9/11. _And_ then you asked me to kill you, or at least tell you how _Williams_ could kill you. It's definitely a conversation I'll remember for the rest of my life."

Pantone glanced sidelong down at him. "Well, that's not really saying very much, is it, Mac?"

In frustration, Mac kicked out his legs in the direction of the Director's feet. "_Fuck_ _you_, Henry."

"You forgot to mention that we also talked about _Jack_."

With a deep sigh, Mac rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, _of course_ we also talked about Jack. I remember that very clearly, too. I told you he'd been facing bribery charges when he died, and that I had agreed to testify against him. But I never got a chance to actually do so, did I? He died before any charges were filed. Besides, you already _knew_ about the charges. You told me so at the coffee shop. You even said you didn't blame me for agreeing to testify."

"Yes, but I _didn't_ know about that the _first_ time you told me. At the sports bar."

Mac gasped as it started to dawn on him what was bothering the Director. "You … _didn't_ … know that I had agreed to testify before I told you _myself_?"

"No, I didn't. It was news to me. As you said yourself, the charges were never actually filed, so after 9/11 that information just got lost. And believe me, for the past 11 years I've _really_ been looking. Being a Director at Homeland Security was very useful, of course, but it still didn't help me discover that you were _right under my nose_!"

Pantone saw that he would have to finally tell Mac what he hadn't been able to bring himself to mention for eleven years.

"Mac, we've been close friends for many years now, right? Okay, now just imagine that you've asked to meet me because you're seriously ill and feeling depressed about it. In fact, you don't even want to _live_ any longer. You've finally worked up the courage to ask me to end it all for you, because I always gave you strength whenever you were low. You really _trust_ me to help you, because I'm one of your _closest_ friends, and _I_ happen to know how to get away with doing it. You with me so far?"

"I don't know, Henry," Mac replied skeptically. "Does this story have a _point_?"

"So what happens next? Not only do I _absolutely_ refuse to help you, but I also casually mention that Claire actually committed suicide because of something _I_ had done to her. How would you feel about that?"

Mac looked up at the Director in astonishment. "Is this your way of telling me that … Jack committed suicide?"

"_Yes_, Mac, the building Jack ran into _had already been cleared!_ It was _empty_ - everyone inside it had already gotten out safely. At that time, that was common knowledge among all of the first responders, including Jack. And it wasn't that hard for me to find out later, either, but I just never knew _why_ he'd gone inside anyway."

"You mean to say you've known all along that Jack killed himself? Why on earth have you never mentioned it to me? If you _had_, I would've immediately made the connection to the bribery charges."

"I was _mortified_, Mac! Suicide is a mortal sin." Pantone pointed down at the floor beneath Mac. "My son is burning down in hellfire right now for what he's done. God knows, my life has been a misery ever since I discovered that. And then I found out that _you_ put him down there."

"Henry, believe me when tell you I _never knew_ that's what actually happened to Jack."

"And I _never knew_ you'd agreed to testify against him. Your word always carried a lot of weight, even back then. You'd have sent Jack to prison for _years_. He'd have let his father and grandfather down. When he found out that _you_ would testify, he killed himself to avoid that fate."

They were silent for a moment before the Director suddenly asked, "_If_ I had told you Jack had committed suicide, would you have admitted it was because of _you_?"

"Honestly, I … _don't_ … know. You never gave me a chance to find out, did you?"

"Maybe I should have, Mac. If I had entrusted you with the truth about Jack, then none of this would have have happened."

"All of those damned balloons – were they actually _your_ idea?"

"What?" Pantone stared at him in disbelief. "No, those were _Jerry's_ idea. Completely looney tune, if you ask me. At least he had the sense not to tell me about them until they were ready. He had hatched this crazy plan to stage an bioterrorist incident to get back at the Mayor, on my behalf."

"The _Mayor_? But why? What has he ever done you?"

Closing his eyes, Pantone slouched back against the wall with a groan. "He withheld my line-of-duty benefits. Long story, too humiliating, don't even ask."

"But what exactly did _Williams_ stand to gain by spreading anthrax in New York?"

"When I told him I was ill, we agreed he'd take over my job, and Jerry apparently decided to increase the funding for our Office. And, boy, did _he_ ever succeed, tripling my workload overnight. Especially when he was _childish_ enough to place a balloon in your apartment, just because you'd punched him at Trinity. Did I ever chew him out for that - I nearly gave him another shiner myself. _That_ balloon made it pretty obvious to everyone that Al Qaeda couldn't _possibly_ be involved."

"So Williams picked _me _as his intended anthrax victim." Mac frowned bitterly. "Well, I'm not surprised, really. The two of us never saw eye-to-eye on anything."

"Mac, you _still_ don't get it, do you?" Pantone replied. "It never even _occurred_ to Jerry to pick you. He was going to choose some random beat cop. After our little chat at the sports bar Saturday night, though, _I_ picked you. I was _furious_ at you, Mac. _I_ told Jerry you had the Sunday morning shift, and he set up the Central Park crime scene to kill you. For _me_."

Mac already knew the Director had betrayed him, but hearing him actually say it cut like a knife. Looking up at him now, he suddenly realized how he could kill the man within seconds, if only he could get his hands free.

"You really are a cold-hearted bastard, Henry," he spat out. "If you felt that way about me, why did you even agree to meet me at the coffee shop?"

"Because I had to find out if you really didn't remember anything from our conversation at the sports bar. Of course, I _wasn't_ going to mention what we talked about, but then _you _had to bring it up again. Do you realize that if it weren't for your father's whiskey bottle, you'd _never_ have suspected that anything was up?"

"At the coffee shop, you asked me to kill you _again._ This was _after_ you and Williams already tried to kill _me_ in Central Park. Why would you do something insane like that?"

"I thought you might give me some useful pointers for Jerry. Hey, I didn't want him going to prison for murder."

"Henry, unlock these handcuffs," Mac growled, "and I'll show you exactly what I think of you right now."

Pantone ignored him. "Why do you think Jerry and I tried to have you quarantined at USAMRIID? Why we assigned agents to follow you around? Monitored your phone calls and emails? Got access to your Crime Lab's databases? To find out what _you_ knew about _us_."

Blinking his eyes in an attempt to stay alert, Mac saw the past two weeks' events in a new light for the first time. "But then why did you send a copy of my medical records from Trinity General to me? I thought you were trying to reassure me that I didn't have asbestos in my lungs, like you."

"No," Pantone exclaimed, "I expected you to make it _public_ that the Mayor was deliberately covering up anthrax. Humiliate him. Send him to prison. Whatever. Mac, when it comes to keeping your mouth shut, you've _never_ done what you've been told. So, why the sudden change? Was this Detective Danville's influence? She seems like a sensible woman to me. Did she warn you not to go public?"

Mac's cheeks burned with the humiliation of having been played so completely by one of his oldest friends. "Remind me again, because I'm really tired and my head is spinning. So how exactly did I kill _you_?"

"I wouldn't be _sick_ now if I hadn't been out looking for Jack. And Jack wouldn't have been _missing_ if you hadn't agreed to testify against him. _That's_ how."

"Did you and Williams really have to raise the NTAS alert for _eight million people_ to get back at me? Wasn't that just a little bit over the top, even for two DHS Directors?"

"_Jerry_ was trying to raise the damned NTAS alert, not me. All I wanted was for you to suffer the same slow, agonizing death to which you had condemned me, just like you'd done with your own father. I _trusted_ you completely, Mac. I went to that sports bar to ask you to put me out of my misery, only to discover that _you'd_ made my life not worth living in the first place."

Staring wearily up at him, Mac recalled something Don had said in the car. "Nothing is ever what it seems, is it?"

Pantone let out a deep sigh. "Amen to that."

"You realize my suffering won't bring back Jack or Jerry, don't you?" Mac mumbled before he closed his eyes again.

"I _realize_ that." Rising to his feet, Pantone yawned and stretched out his arms. Before he left to check on the captain's progress, he turned to look back at the man now asleep on the floor. "That's why you and I are joining them downstairs tomorrow."

Many hours later, Mac woke up with a start. A distant sound had pierced his sleep-clouded mind like a ray of light. Although familiar to him, he couldn't immediately place the doleful notes. He knew they had brought him much-needed comfort in the past, yet now they just left him with a lingering sense of doom. When he finally realized he heard church bells pealing, he tried to look at his watch, only to find his hands still handcuffed behind his back. Groaning under his breath, he flexed his arms to alleviate the unbearable tension in his shoulders.

He lay for a while contemplating the bleak daylight filtering down through the skylight above. Outside the police station the sky was dim and overcast, and on Easter Sunday church bells would be ringing throughout the morning. He realized that without his watch, it was going to be impossible for him to tell how much time he had left.

A moment later, the sallyport door to the garage opened and Mac heard heavy footsteps echo across the detention floor. The cell gate swung open and Pantone strode into his holding cell, a characteristic preoccupied frown on his face. Mac noticed the older man still wore the same – albeit very crumpled - clothes as the previous day. Yet now he had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, something that Mac had never seen him do before.

Pantone sat down on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face wearily. Then he took a long look at Mac lying at his feet. Before leaving the detention, he had drawn a swift mental chalk outline around him, and he could tell now that Mac hadn't stirred all night. Taking note of his pale skin, bleary eyes, shallow breaths and sweat-dampened hair, Pantone reluctantly concluded that Hendricks' time estimate had been correct. It was too late for remorse now.

"You're awake, Mac. Good. I've been thinking."

"He got away, didn't he?" Mac interrupted hoarsely.

"Yes," Pantone replied with a grudging smile, "yes, he did. But _you_ didn't."

Mac's eyes narrowed. "What time is it, then?"

"It's late, I'm afraid. Very late. _Too_ late, actually. I've just come from St. John. The sermon was very moving. It made me reconsider what you told me last night."

"Which service was it?"

"The 11 o'clock service. It's _noon_ now, Mac."

Mac was quiet for a moment, suddenly recalling how he had teased Don earlier about it being midnight. "I don't believe you."

"Fine, I don't expect you to." Pantone raised a finger in the air. "But that's the Angelus bell you hear tolling right now. It's rung every day at noon - and again at 6 o'clock. The two of us won't be around for that, though."

The Director's eyes suddenly caught sight of something lying on Mac's throat that he hadn't noticed before. He bent down to reach for the tiny crucifix and held it thoughtfully between his fingertips.

"This is new, isn't it? Someone bought this for you?"

Mac nodded weakly. "Detective Danville. She wanted to protect me. From _this_."

"So you've got someone in your life now?" Pantone shook his head ruefully. "I hadn't expected that. Do you love each other?"

Mac hesitated, wondering if he really wanted to admit it now. "Yes, we do. That's why you have to let me go, Henry. I'm meant to be together with _her_."

"I've thought about what you told me last night. You're a good man, Mac Taylor. Always were. I'm sorry I ever doubted that. I always valued your friendship."

Staring up at him, Mac realized he was too tired for anything to surprise him any longer. "I'm glad you finally see it that way."

"And you're right, of course. Your suffering won't bring anyone back, I realize that. So I've decided to help you. I'll do you that favor, as a true friend."

Mac's breath caught in his throat. "What _kind_ of … favor?"

Pantone looked surprised. "Why, the favor you refused me, of course. I want to end your suffering for you, Mac." He reached behind his back to bring out the gun tucked into his belt.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Go ahead. Just ask me to, and I'll kill you."

"No, no, Henry," Mac gasped, shaking his head repeatedly, "_don't_ do it. I'm telling you _not_ to kill me. Just let me go."

As Pantone bent down to place the gun against his forehead, Mac's eyes widened in horror.

"Do you believe in the resurrection, Mac?"

"What difference does it make," he cried out, cringing down against the floor, "if you're going to send us both to _hell_?"

"Just answer the question."

All through their conversation last night, Mac had assumed that being honest with Pantone would somehow help him, but now he was not so certain. "_Yes_, yes, I do," he finally gasped, too weary to play mind games with the Director. "You already know I do, Henry."

"Good. In that case, you'll probably be going the other way."

"Don't you _dare_ presume that I want to die!" Mac protested indignantly, his anger at Pantone flaring again. "You asked the Sheriff to kill you? Fine by me. Knock yourselves out. But you _have_ to let me go first."

"Mac, I don't think you quite understand. There's no _point,_ any longer. Nothing can save you, any more. You're _going_ to die. It's just a matter of _when_ and _how_. And trust me, you'll want to take the shortcut."

"Take these handcuffs off." Mac hoped Pantone hadn't noticed what he was doing behind his back. "I want to see what time it is."

Pantone stretched out his arm to hold his wristwatch in front of Mac's face. "I already told you. It's too late. You're already _dead_. Just like me."

Mac tried in vain to focus his eyes on the tiny liquid crystal digits. "I don't trust you. I want to see it for myself. On my _father's_ watch." He was banking on the Director's willingness to prove he wasn't bluffing.

"Okay, I don't see why not."

Pantone fished a tiny key from his trouser pocket and reached under Mac's back to unlock the handcuffs. Mac clenched his eyes shut and groaned out loud when he was finally able to straighten his shoulders. With a wince, he slowly brought his arm out from under him to look at the old-fashioned watch on his own wrist.

Now there really was no doubt that Pantone had been telling the truth. Even he could tell that the two little hands overlapped each other at the top. It _was_ too late. Mac moved his mouth again, but this time no sound escaped his lips.

"What did you just say?" Placing the gun on the bench beside him, Pantone knelt down on the floor to hear Mac better.

"I've changed my mind now." Mac's voice was barely a whisper.

Pantone wasn't sure he'd understood him. He lowered his head until his ear was right beside Mac's mouth. "About what, Mac?"

"_I'm_ doing _you_ that favor, after all."

With these words, Mac slung his left arm over the Director's neck, angling his elbow so that he could hang on by the crook of his arm. Then he brought his right hand up to press his sweatshirt sleeve against Pantone's mouth and nose. Bracing himself against the pain in his shoulder, Mac knew he now needed to hold on for at least 20 seconds to succeed.

Taken aback by Mac's sudden move, Pantone struggled to stay on his knees and not be pulled face-first onto the floor. With a gasp, he thrust one hand against the concrete to steady himself, while he reached behind his neck to wrest Mac's arm off with the other. Closing his eyes, Mac began counting in his head and gradually felt Pantone's scrabbling fingers lose their strength. When he finally opened his eyes again, he saw the color drain from the Director's face, as his blood pressure plummeted and he began to go into shock.

Mac released his grip and dropped back down to the floor, allowing Pantone to sit upright on his knees, swaying unsteadily. His eyes already wide with panic, the Director felt his chest slowly tighten, causing every wheezing breath to become more and more ragged. When he opened his mouth to speak, he discovered that his tongue had swollen and he was no longer able to swallow. Too late, he realized he had underestimated Mac for the very last time.

"Did you … did you just …?" he slurred, clasping both hands to his constricted throat.

"Yes, I _did_. You should've checked my pockets. Now you really _are_ dead, Henry."

As he slumped sideways onto the floor, Pantone began to shake uncontrollably, and Mac recognized the seizures as the first angina spasms of a heart attack. The irony was almost too unbearable to contemplate. Mac knew that the post-mortem would merely confirm the apparent heart attack, so long as foul play wasn't suspected. Unless he volunteered the truth himself, he had just committed the perfect murder. He had finally done the favor Pantone had asked of him two weeks ago.

As he watched the convulsions rack the Director's body, Mac felt a qualm of nausea rise in his stomach again. He felt revulsion at his former friend's vindictiveness, but also at what he himself had just done. Although no one would ever blame him - and no court would ever convict him - he knew in his heart that his motive hadn't actually been _self-defense_, since he had no expectation of survival. And it really hadn't been _escape_ either, because he knew the secured detention doors were controlled by dispatch. And it hadn't even been to get at the _gun_, which he had forgotten about already. Instead, it dawned on him that he'd just done exactly what he had refused to forgive Don for. He'd killed a man purely out of _spite_.

Mac reached up and slid his hand blindly along the bench to search for Pantone's gun. Once he felt its weight in his hands, he realized he had no plan beyond killing the Director. Checking the clip, he was pleased to find it fully loaded, but didn't know what exactly he was going to do now. He doubted he had the strength to get up off the floor, let alone blast his way out of the police station. Glancing up at the ceiling camera above, he knew Pantone's death wouldn't go unnoticed for very long.

As expected, only a few second passed before a shrill alarm began blaring, and pounding footsteps brought the captain bursting into the detention.

"What the hell –" the policeman exclaimed as he pulled the gun from his shoulder holster, his eyes fixed on Pantone's still shuddering body.

Grabbing his wrist to steady his trembling hands, Mac quickly raised the gun and fired three rapid shots at the captain. His heart sank to see that he had managed to miss completely at such a close range. The captain kicked the gun out of his hand, sending it clattering across the concrete floor behind him.

"What just happened here?" the policeman shouted furiously at Mac, bending down to grab his sweatshirt with his fist. Without waiting for a reply, he jumped to his feet and aimed his gun down at Mac's chest. Mac flinched as the sharp crack of a gunshot reverberated across the detention. Then he gasped when the captain's knee hit him in the stomach as the man crashed headlong to the floor beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw someone else striding swiftly through the detention towards him. He craned his neck to see if the captain's gun had landed anywhere within reach. Yet before he could grab it, a tall, dark-haired man with graying temples entered the holding cell, a smoking gun still clutched in his hand. As he squatted down beside Mac, the stranger's eyebrows knitted at the sight of the two dead men. Mac struggled to get up, but the man pushed his hand firmly down onto his chest.

"Keep your head down, Detective Taylor. This isn't over yet."

As predicted, another shot rang out as the sallyport door flew open and an enraged McKay spurted towards them. Mac saw the man beside him fling out his right arm, take careful aim diagonally through the many steel bars, and wait a calm split-second before loosing the perfect shot to stop the agent dead in his tracks. Almost immediately, the pass door opened and Jensen stormed in, his gun also already drawn. Mac's eyes widened when his savior tossed his gun from his right to his left hand and shot the agent in the chest, flinging him backwards to the floor, arms wide.

For a full minute, the stranger held his gun poised, ready for more assailants, before he relaxed and holstered it again.

"It's an honor finally to meet you, sir," he told Mac with a wide grin. "I've heard so much about you."

Staring up into his face, Mac was unable to take his eyes off the man's warm blue eyes. The family resemblance was just uncanny. "Likewise," he gasped.

"You understand why I'm here, don't you?" the man asked him gently.

Mac gave a weak smile. "Not to do my tax returns, I hope?" He could already tell that the two of them would get along _very_ well.

"No," the man laughed congenially. "They'll have to wait. I've actually brought my wife." He stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.

"I'm assuming your father taught you to shoot like that." Mac couldn't recall ever having seen such expert marksmanship by a civilian before.

"Well, he always thought my talents were wasted," the man replied modestly. "Actually, Donnie mentioned that the two of you would be dropping by the cabin for some lessons. For some reason, he asked me bring along a crate of _apples_."

Mac blanched. "I think I might have agreed to something I shouldn't have."

Now a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense haircut rushed in through the open sallyport entrance. Ignoring the dead bodies littering her path, she made a beeline for the holding cell at the back to kneel down beside Mac.

"Can you swallow, sir?" she asked him earnestly, opening her handbag.

"Come again?" Mac's eyes darted back and forth between their faces, trying to work out what was going on.

She glanced up from rummaging through her bag to look him sternly in the eye. "When have you last eaten, Detective?"

Watching her unscrew a bottle of water, Mac suddenly worried this insane woman would pull a meal out of her handbag and somehow try to feed him.

"I'm _not_ hungry," he protested feebly and rolled onto his side to get away from her.

She gave a short bark of laughter before telling her husband, "Go ahead, honey, hold him down for me and raise his head."

While her husband scooped up Mac's head, she shook six assorted pills from a jar into the palm of her hand. When Mac opened his mouth to object, she pushed the whole handful into his mouth and held the water bottle to his lips.

"Ciprofloxacin, doxycycline and penicillin," she explained with a smile, while he dutifully swallowed his medication with a large gulp of water. "Dr. Hendricks said you'd be all right with a double dose on an empty stomach. Apparently, he gave the Director a very conservative estimate of your situation, just to be on the safe side." Mac winced as she smacked her hand down against his burning forehead. "He specifically asked me not to give you any antipyretics or analgesics, since your fever has to run its course."

Once again, they heard running footsteps behind them, but this time Don appeared at his brother's side, flashing his widest grin down at Mac.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, _Mac_!" he gasped when his eyes fell on his blood-streaked face and the dog leash still wrapped around his throat. "What have those _sick_ _bastards_ been doing to you?" he exclaimed, his own face showing equal measures of horror and disgust.

"Hey, Don, it's all right," Mac reassured him with a smile. "_I'm_ all right, really. Nothing happened. Just help me up, okay?"

"Oh no, no, you don't." Don turned Mac's head to carefully untie the leash behind his neck. "You shouldn't be getting up at all. Medevac is coming from Albany to take you to hospital. And Jo and Stella are flying up with Roberts. They'll be landing any minute now."

"Don, I've been lying here _all night_," Mac replied impatiently. "My back is killing me. I _need_ to get off this floor _now_."

"I'm glad you finally met my brother and sister-in-law," Don exclaimed while he and his brother helped Mac sit up and climb unsteadily to his feet. "Did I forget to mention that she's a pharmacist in Albany? It turns out they live just 15 miles from here."

"It must have slipped your mind."

The two brothers grabbed each other's shoulders to link arms behind Mac's back, thereby supporting him as they walked down the hallway towards the patrol squad room.

"Mac, you just have _no idea_ what I've been through," Don continued enthusiastically on the way. "I bet I could even teach _you_ a thing or two about survival in rugged mountain terrain."

"I don't doubt it." Mac smiled gratefully at him. "I definitely want to hear all about it."

The patrol squad room was already bustling with frenetic activity, now that state troopers had commandeered the police station and arrested the Sheriff and his many accomplices. Mac was quickly introduced to a dozen men, including the State Police Field Commander from Albany and the local Troop D Commander, and shook hands with several uncomfortable-looking senior DHS officials, who kept averting their eyes. While keeping a nervous distance from Don's sister-in-law, he gave a brief, preliminary statement and answered the most urgent questions.

At some point, someone had the sense to hand Mac a wet towel, with which he quickly wiped his face in the hope that it would stop everyone from staring at him. Looking around, he saw the handcuffed Sheriff being escorted through the crowded room. When their eyes met, the old man shouted at him, "What the _hell_ did you do to Hank back there?" To Mac's annoyance, the entire room fell silent and everyone's eyes turned to him.

Mac frowned deeply, loath to discuss the incident in the present company. Although he knew that his and Pantone's falling out had affected the rest of New York City, he felt that the details of how their friendship had ended were a strictly private matter. He was even willing to pay the price of professional dishonesty if it meant he could lock some of his personal skeletons back into their closets.

"Nothing," he finally replied, keeping his eyes locked onto the Sheriff's and ignoring everyone else in the room. At that moment, he realized this was the story he intended to stick to towards everyone from now on. "It was a heart attack. Just like his father."

A few minutes later, Don and his brother were called away separately to assist the state police, leaving Mac standing alone beside one of the desks in the midst of all of the commotion. Feeling increasingly lightheaded, he glanced down at the chair beside him and wondered briefly if he should sit down. Deciding against it, he leaned against the desk instead and spread out his hands on its top to support himself.

Gradually, the buzz of voices around him began to sound distant, and the light in the room seemed to grow dimmer. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head several times to try to clear his tunnelling vision. Now his own gasping breath rasped loudly in his ears, as if he had been plunged underwater.

"I'm cold," he said to no one in particular, startling himself.

He wrapped his arms around his aching chest and realized he'd been running on empty for far too long. The last few days' events were about to catch up with him, threatening to close his body down for good. In an attempt to find a wall he could lean against, he began to walk slowly backwards, praying he wouldn't be knocked over by anyone on his way. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized Don standing between two troopers nearby.

"Mac? What exactly do you think you're doing?" he heard Don call out with an uncertain smile.

"I just need to … lie down."

Don's smile immediately vanished, and Mac thought he heard him say something about a dictionary. His last conscious thought was to remind himself to have a word with Stella and Jo about it when they arrived. Miraculously, his back had just touched the wall when he fell and slid sideways to the floor. Within seconds, Don and half a dozen other faces were staring down at him, looking deeply concerned. As hands grabbed his wrists and slapped his face, a multitude of voices above him began shouting all at once.

"Quick, he's going into shock. Get a blanket. Keep him awake. Does anyone know CPR? Where are the EMS? Get them in here _now_!"

Don could have sworn he heard Mac mutter, "Goddamned karma," just before his eyelids slid shut.

Opening his eyes again, Mac found himself standing alone, engulfed by the familiar blizzard once more. Not a breeze was stirring, and the heavy snowflakes dropped silently, and almost vertically, from the overcast sky above. This time, however, he was walking into the dazzling brightness, passing between tall pine trees heavily laden with snow. He turned his head to search in vain for other footprints on the ground, which sloped gently uphill towards a distant summit.

Now several rays of sunlight began filtering down through the falling snowflakes, and Mac could already make out patches of blue sky between the treetops. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw a familiar young man waiting for him in a sunlit clearing up ahead. The uniformed man looked healthy and fit, not at all how Mac remembered his final days. When he recognized the watch the man was wearing, he glanced down and smiled to see it missing from his own wrist now.

Mac's smile faded when a sharp pain - like a bee sting - on the side of his head made him wince. Startled, he instinctively raised his hand to swat the invisible insect away. When the pain just intensified, his fingers flew up to clutch his throbbing ear. Slowly, the snowy forest began to swirl into a dizzying blur around him, before everything disappeared down into a spinning vortex. Mac inhaled sharply and suddenly found himself blinking up at Don, Jo and Stella's smiling faces.

"See? What did I tell you, Mac?" Don told him with a grin, letting go of his earlobe again. "It _hurts_ like hell."

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><p><strong>Next up: Chapter 17 - "The Birthday" (Epilogue) <strong>Everything is (nearly) back to normal again

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><p>So how exactly did Mac kill Pantone? Well, here's a hint: he's had the murder weapon in his pocket for most of the story. (The answer is back in chapter 6.)<p> 


	17. The Birthday

**Author's note:**Thank you so much - one last time - for your kind reviews of the previous chapter - they've been so very encouraging.

Just in case you're still wondering, in the previous chapter Mac emptied his asthma inhaler into his sleeve to kill Pantone.

I think I might have overdosed on "Rock Your S&M Fantasy Down Low" (by Titus Jones - see my profile) while writing this chapter - it's pretty silly, LOL. ;D

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><p><strong>Chapter 17 – "The Birthday"<strong>

_Six weeks later_

_6:00 a.m._ Jo Danville squinted against the early morning brightness to read the LED digits on the alarm clock. Reaching out to press the 'off' button, she gasped when the sleeve of her pajamas suddenly extended beyond her fingertips. _Had she somehow shrunk overnight? _Surely, there had to be a more plausible explanation, she mused. With a yawn, she stretched her limbs languidly and waited for the new day to sink into her consciousness.

The sunrise was already dancing in through the windows, reminding her that she had forgotten to draw the blinds last night. Craning her neck, Jo was relieved to see that she'd at least had the presence of mind to line up her medication beside the alarm clock. Although the antibiotics were only a minor nuisance, she was grateful to be finished with them soon – yet another sign that things were getting back to normal. She glanced across the double bed and saw the same three vials scattered atop the other nightstand. Since he was two weeks ahead of her, she knew his were finally empty, yet this was also the reason he was in trouble again now.

Jo raised herself on her elbows to look at the half-naked man sprawled beside her. He lay on his stomach, his left arm wrapped loosely around the pillow his face was buried in, his right arm draped over the bedside. During his restless night, he had kicked off his sheet, which was now wrapped around one of his bare feet. The sight of him sleeping always made her body hum in sweet anticipation, but this morning she knew she would have to restrain herself.

She watched the muscles in his shoulders ripple and tense as his body began to stir. He shifted his hips to straighten his back, and his feet nudged the sheet to the floor. Holding her breath, Jo waited for him to realize that someone had switched off his alarm clock for him. Yet he merely raised his face a quarter inch, flipped his pillow into the air and yanked it down tightly over his head.

_So it's_ _as bad as that_, she thought, listening to the soft rhythm of his breath as he drifted back to sleep.

With her fingertips, she raised a corner of the pillow. "Good morning, Mac," she cooed down at the nape of his neck.

He turned his head towards her and cracked his eyes open, allowing them a moment to adjust to the brightness. His features were still pale and drawn, a testimony to his arduous journey to recovery after collapsing in Granville. With an empathetic frown, Jo stared at the livid scar that now cleft his eyebrow right down into his eyelid. His only complaint after leaving Trinity General - blurry vision whenever he was tired – had ceased the moment his doctors had suggested reading glasses to him.

"Jo?" he asked hoarsely, trying to focus on her face. "What on earth are you doing in my bed?"

Instead of answering, she put her hand on his cheek with a reassuring smile, her heart aching for him. Although Henry Pantone's name had never been mentioned again, Jo knew that his betrayal had left Mac with yet another indelible scar to cope with. She had been there for him during his darkest moments, but his month in hospital had left him feeling listless, and for a while he even appeared to have lost interest in the Crime Lab. Yet when the whole team made a point of rallying around him, he managed to find a way back to his old self and had quickly picked up the familiar reins again.

Watching her, Mac's forehead creased in confusion. "Are you wearing my pajamas?"

"Just the top. You're wearing the bottom half yourself."

He rolled onto his back and looked around his bedroom to regain his bearings. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, not entirely displeased to have unexpected company.

"I got a worried call from Sam last night. It seems you weren't answering your phone. So I decided to let myself in. When I saw the state you were in, I called Sam to lend me a hand. Then I decided to stay to make sure you survived the night."

"And did I?" He turned his head to glance at her.

"I'm not sure yet. How are you feeling?"

Mac blinked up at the ceiling. "I'm … fine, I guess," he replied, his voice betraying a lack of conviction.

"So is that _fine_-fine or _in-agony_-fine?" With a smile, Jo reached out to ruffle his hair roughly with her hand.

"Ow!" Clamping both hands over his face, he raised his knees to kick out his feet. "That would be _in-agony_-fine," he gasped and rolled onto his side with a grimace. For a moment, he lay quietly with his eyes shut before grumbling, "Thanks for clearing that up for me," from behind his fingers.

She laughed and got off the bed to disappear into his bathroom. "Let me get you a couple of aspirins."

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, he raised himself onto his elbow to watch her leave. Although he knew they were both expected at the Crime Lab soon, he hoped she had planned to stay a little longer. He had just glanced unenthusiastically at his alarm clock, when she returned with a glass of fizzing water. Sitting down next to him, she watched him throw back his head and swallow it in one gulp. When she took the glass from his hand, he slumped back onto the mattress with a groan.

"Maybe you should call in sick today," she suggested gently, setting the glass aside. Then she slid her hand over his stomach and settled down across his chest. With her chin resting on her fist, she gazed down into his eyes. "No one expects you to put in a full week already."

He looked thoughtfully up at her. "You know I can't do that." Then he combed his fingers through her hair, tucking the loose strands behind her ears to keep them from catching in his mouth. "I've only just got back from five weeks' sick leave. Besides, I wouldn't want to miss out on Lucy's birthday party."

The little girl's fifth birthday had come and gone while he had still been recovering in hospital. Yet the Messers had insisted on postponing the celebration until the weather was more clement and her godfather was well enough to attend. As fortune would have it, the Friday afternoon they picked for the party also coincided with Stella being back in New York to attend a forensics symposium.

"I didn't actually get to bed by myself last night, did I?"

Jo smiled, amazed at how slowly the pennies were dropping for him this morning.

"No, Sam and I dragged you in here. We found you asleep on your couch. You looked quite comfortable, actually."

Slipping his hand up under her pajama top, Mac ran his fingers absently along the curve of her back. Jo felt how his arms flexed against her shoulders to nestle her snugly against his body. With a contented sigh, she lowered her head to his chest and listened to the tremor of his heartbeat. For a while they lay peacefully entwined, the drone of early-morning traffic seemingly miles away outside his bedroom windows.

"Someone undressed me." His eyes widened with the sudden realization. "Please tell me that someone was _you_."

"Nope, that would be Sam," she murmured, drawing lazy circles on his shoulder with her fingertips. "I was too busy clearing away the empty beer bottles in your living room."

"Jo! Are you serious?" He released her from his embrace and a blush began to creep across his cheeks. "You let _Don's sister_ undress me?" His eyes darted around as his mind grappled with the irreparable damage done. "I'm never going live this down, am I?"

"I'm just kidding, Mac," Jo laughed, raising her head again. "You really think I'd let another woman undress you?" She leaned forward and smothered his lips with affectionate kisses. "When I've got that down to a 'T' myself?"

"I'll say," he slurred between her many kisses.

"No, Sam was too busy trying to get her brothers down into a taxi. The three of you _really_ made her day. I don't think I've ever seen her laugh so hard before."

He rolled his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. "Just for the record, last night was _Don's_ idea. He's been itching to drink me under the table the minute I got off my meds."

"Well, in that case his plan backfired," she replied with another laugh, "because we found _him_ snoring under your coffee table. His brother was the only one of you three still sitting upright. Now Sam seems to think we need to chaperone you boys' trip up to their cabin next weekend."

He drew a sharp breath to protest, "That's not –", but then he suddenly changed his mind. "Come to think of it, I could use your protection from Don's sister-in-law. That woman scares the bejesus out of me."

Assuming he was just joking, Jo took it as a sign that he had to be feeling much better already. "C'mon, I'll make you strawberry pancakes, if you're up to having breakfast."

With a grateful nod, Mac glanced around his bedroom and began to think about getting dressed. He reluctantly realized it was time to bring up a very sensitive issue with Jo. Biting his lower lip, he stared up at her without speaking for a moment.

"What's up?" When she sensed the sudden change in his demeanor, her lips curved down into a frown.

"I've run out of dress shirts to wear to work, and I'm blaming _you_." He shook his head regretfully. "We can't go on like this. You've got everyone at the Lab wondering why their boss keeps showing up in _T-shirts_."

"Mac, just _listen_ to yourself!" Jo threw her hand over her mouth and gasped out loud. "I've never heard anything so sexist in my entire life. You sound like a … like a Neanderthal!"

With a wry smile, he waited patiently for her to finish her rant. "Are you quite done yet?" Then he pushed an accusing finger against her chest. "Because _you're_ the sexist around here, Jo Danville. And I'd like to hear you finally admit it."

Glancing down her front, Jo raised an enquiring eyebrow at him, but didn't reply.

"You're a real _demon_ with those scissors, you know?" he continued with a sigh. "I'm thinking you might be needing some kind of therapy."

"Sheesh." She grinned self-consciously at him, her rosy flush matching his own now. "No need to make such a big deal about it. Tell you what?" she added brightly. "I'll just buy you more shirts. In fact, there's a sale on at Nieman Marcus right now."

He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "You're just _unbelievable_." Reaching up, he gently pulled her chin down for yet another tender kiss. "But you know that already, don't you?"

By now, the sun-drenched room had grown quite sultry, and perspiration was forming between their bodies. Yet Jo still managed to raise a trail of goosebumps by tracing her fingers along the waistband of Mac's pajama pants.

"Word has it that Danny and Adam have set up another office pool," she told him. "They're taking bets on what'll happen when we go to Don's beach house next month."

"Now _why_ doesn't that surprise me?" he sighed. "I told you we're surrounded by people with too much imagination, remember? Obviously, I've been away too long."

"Apparently there are bets on eleven possible permutations between the four of us."

"Eleven? Did you just say _eleven_?" he repeated incredulously, before doing the calculation swiftly in his head. "Sheesh, that even includes a _foursome_. Call me old-fashioned, but it all sounds a little too … progressive … for me."

"Actually, old-fashioned suits me just fine." She ran her foot down along his pajamas, trying to snag the fabric between her toes.

He raised his head to glance down his leg. "Are you playing footsie with me, Detective Danville?"

"Well, what if I am, Detective Taylor?" Her lips fell slightly apart as she ran her tongue along her bottom lip. "How's your head now?"

"Much better, thanks to you." With a smile, he unbuttoned her pajama top and tugged it off her naked shoulders.

Rising to straddle his waist, she settled down onto him and matched his curves with her own. "Is this old-fashioned enough for you?"

"It'll have to do." He clasped her waist with his hands, his thumbs caressing either side of her navel.

"Now how am I going to get these pajama pants off you?"

"No scissors, Jo," he warned her sternly. "That's cheating."

"How about _this_ then?" she asked coyly, shifting her hips very slightly.

Gripping the sheet beneath him, Mac groaned and arched his back, unable to reply.

Three sensuous hours - and a sumptuous stack of pancakes - later, they finally arrived on the 35th floor at 5885 Broadway. Still holding hands, they stepped shyly out of the elevator and looked at the empty landing around them. Mac ran a finger under Jo's chin, coaxing her to glance up at him as he kissed her one last time. Then he let go of her hand and strode briskly towards his office, greeting his smiling staff on his way.

"Morning, Sid," he called out to the Medical Examiner standing up ahead together with two of his mortuary assistants.

"Good morning." Sid glanced up absently, expecting to see Mac's familiarly wan features. Instead he found himself gaping at the detective's healthy-looking complexion. "I say, you're looking _particularly_ well this morning, Mac."

"Why, thank you, Sid," Mac replied graciously, his eyes sliding back to meet Jo's.

The Medical Examiner watched Jo walk by, beaming radiantly while looking equally flushed herself.

"Did the two of you just take the stairs or something?" he enquired, tilting his head curiously.

"Something like that, Sid," she called over her shoulder with a laugh, as she headed for her own office.

Even with his glasses unclipped, the eagle-eyed doctor had not failed to notice that her rosiness dipped right down into her cleavage.

"_Oh, my_," he exclaimed with a perceptive smile.

After checking her emails, voicemail and to-do post-its, Jo returned to Mac's office for their daily morning review of cases and staff assignments. Standing beside his desk, he ran through his painstakingly long list, and together they meticulously double-checked inconsistent details in an armload of case files. Although she was scribbling her notes as usual, her eyes kept sweeping down at the neatly aligned stacks of papers on his desk. When he began to realize she wasn't really listening, his voice trailed off a few times without her even noticing. Finally he stopped himself in mid-sentence.

"What's eating you? I need you to be paying attention here."

With a sigh, she lowered her notepad and turned to look him in the eyes. "Are you ever short of breath? Do you still have trouble breathing?"

"What? No, of course not." He frowned, unable to follow her line of thought. "Why do you even ask?"

Crossing her arms, she leant back against his desk. "Everyone here at the Lab knows that I use box of copy paper as a doorstop, right? That I've occasionally eaten my lunch out of a petri dish. That I've been known to apply make-up with a fingerprint duster."

"Actually," he replied, still looking puzzled, "I only just noticed that last one myself, when you left it lying in my bathroom. What's your point here?"

Jo's hand swept down behind her back to pick up the asthma inhaler lying on top of his in-tray. "Why are _you_ using _this_ as a paperweight? It's empty." She held it up in front of his face. "You've got me wondering what's going on. This is _so_ not you, Mac."

"I have to disagree with you there." With a half-hearted smile, he pulled the inhaler gently from her fingers and slipped it back onto his desk. "You can stop speculating. This is actually _so_ me."

Glancing down at her watch, she reluctantly acknowledged that neither of them had time for this now. She was reminded of his unwillingness to confide what was bothering him that morning they'd met in Central Park. As it turned out, he'd been shouldering a dreadful burden that had ended up involving eight million people and very nearly costing him his life. Somehow she'd have to find a way to deal with being in love with a man who guarded his secrets warily.

"I'm going to worm it out of you," she exclaimed, shaking her finger at him, "if it's the last thing I do. And that's not a threat, it's a _promise_."

"I'd like to see you try," he replied defiantly as he watched her leave. "No scissors, Jo. That's cheating," he called out after her, prompting her to turn around and blow him a kiss.

Adam had just arrived outside Mac's office, intending to talk to Jo about some unfinished business. With a frown, he remained for a moment to ponder his boss's words, unable to work out what he could possibly have meant.

"What's up, Adam?" Mac asked absently as he sat down behind his desk and began rifling through the pages of his desk calendar.

Turning to look at him, Adam stepped timidly into his office. "You're looking very well today, boss."

"Thanks, Adam." Glancing up, he saw the young technician quickly fling his hands behind his back. "What have you got there?" He looked at Adam's reflection in the glass door and saw that he was holding a thick file of papers.

"It-it's nothing, really," Adam stammered, a blush spreading across his bearded face. Just then his fingers slipped, and the whole sheaf slid out his hands and feathered across the floor. _I'm dead_. He realized that if Mac picked them up now, Jo would be calling for his head on a platter. Dropping to his knees in the doorway, he began frantically retrieving the papers.

"Here, let me help you with that."

To Adam's horror, Mac had already rounded his desk and squatted down beside him to scoop up a handful. When he saw the colorful children's drawings in his hands, though, his eyes widened and he rose slowly to his feet.

"What the hell –?"

With knitted brows, Mac found himself staring at a crayon drawing of a boy who appeared to be crying, despite being surrounded by teddy bears, a birthday cake and what looked like a six-legged dinosaur. When he flipped to the next drawing – another sad-looking boy standing beside a stack of birthday presents with a limp piece of string in his hand – his mouth fell open.

Adam clamped his hands over his eyes and braced himself for a seismic outburst. His stomach flipped at the image of his boss vaulting over the Mayor's desk to punch him in the face. Yet when he lifted his fingers to peek at the drawings in Mac's hands, he saw to his relief that none had messages to the Mayor on them.

Mac finally remembered to close his mouth. "Adam, what on _earth_ are these doing at the Crime Lab?" he demanded.

"Erm, I've decided to do something to stimulate my creative side. Take a class. Get in touch with my inner child."

When Mac looked at the next drawing – a weeping girl in a tutu sharing a birthday cake with a winged unicorn and three fairy princesses - Adam saw him slip his hand over his mouth while he struggled to find an appropriate expression.

At that moment, Don arrived and rapped his knuckles on the glass door, sporting his darkest shades and broadest smile. "Glad to see you survived last night, Mac."

Still at a loss for words, Mac was staring at the man standing beside him. "Good for you, Adam," he finally replied with a look of deep concern. "But you really ought to be doing, erm … _this_ … in your own time."

"Sure thing, boss," the crimson tech replied before dashing out of the office with the wad of drawings wedged under his arm.

"Whoa, Mac!" Don exclaimed, pulling down his sunglasses to admire his complexion. "You actually look _better_ the morning after the night before!"

Mac rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. "I'm going to hear this all day long, aren't I?"

Don pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "What was _that_ all about?"

"I have … _absolutely_ … no idea, Don," Mac replied slowly, shaking his head earnestly. "Everyone just seems to have _way_ too much imagination around this place."

A half an hour later, Jo passed by Mac's office and was pleasantly surprised to see Don back on his feet again so soon. She was just about to knock on the open glass door, when she noticed the two men staring intently at each other across Mac's desk. If it hadn't been for the smiles on their faces, she could have sworn that they were having an argument.

"I _knew_ what I was doing, Mac."

"Don, you did_ not_ know what you were doing."

"Sure I knew exactly what I was doing."

"Read my lips. You. Did. Not. Know. What you were doing."

"Hey! I _totally_ knew what I was doing."

"You got lucky, that's all. You nearly killed me."

"I did _not_ just get lucky. I'm just _that_ good."

"You _closed_ your eyes!"

"I _knew_ what I was doing, Mac."

Guessing that they had resumed a discussion from last night, Jo pulled her hand back and decided to continue her walk down the hallway instead. In passing, she caught a glimpse of Adam and Danny staring open-mouthed at one of Adam' computer screens. When she overheard snatches of their conversation, her eyebrows shot up and she backtracked a few steps.

"Unbelievable," Danny exclaimed, his hands clasped to the top of his head. "Popeye's hat filled with rain water, causing him to pour water on the crowd. At the same time, Raggedy Ann crashed into a lamppost, and Superman had his _hand_ torn off by a _tree_!"

"_Hoo boy_!" Adam ran his hands through his hair, shuddering involuntarily. "I'm going to have such nightmares tonight!"

"In that case, you won't want to hear the next bit. It says here that Sonic the Hedgehog crashed into a lamppost at Columbus Circle, injuring an off-duty police officer. Ouch! That must have hurt. I wonder if he put 'giant hedgehog' on his worker's comp claim."

"Dudley the Dragon was _speared_ and deflated by a lamppost," Adam read, his eyes widening in horror, "showering glass on the crowd below, while the Kool Aid Man deflated and tipped over. Yuck, talk about coming to a sticky end."

"Ooh, but it just gets even nastier, Adam," Danny continued breathlessly. "The NYPD had to _stab_ and _stomp down_ both Barney and the Pink Panther over crowd concerns. I'm sure _that_ did wonders for our public relations."

"What on earth are you two talking about?" Jo finally interrupted them. "Are you trying to set the mood for Lucy's birthday party this afternoon? Because you're _not_ doing a very good job of it."

"Actually, we looked up balloon-related injuries on Wikipedia," Danny replied with a grin, "to see if anything compares to what happened to Mac. But that was just way too _tame_ compared to the stuff that's already on here."

"Speaking of the devil ..." Adam interrupted, pointing furtively at Mac walking slowly down the hallway together with Don.

"I'll show you by doing it again, Mac."

"Don, you're _not_ doing it again."

"Sure, I'm doing it again. You're just chicken."

"Hey, _I'm_ not chicken! _You're_ homicidal."

"I'm _not_ homicidal, Mac."

"Sure, you are. You make Kenny look like Dudley Do-Right."

They heard a loud gasp. "Did you just compare me to … _Kenny_?"

"Yes, I _did_. And I'll do it again, if you don't give it rest, Don."

"Is it just me," Danny remarked, once they were out of earshot again, "or are those two starting to sound more and more like a married couple?"

He and Adam turned to stare at Jo, awaiting some kind of explanation.

"Hey, don't look at me, guys!" she protested, holding her hands up defensively. "I have no clue _whatsoever_ what they're going on about."

"It must be all that quality time they spent together up in the Catskills," Adam concluded, shaking his head.

At noon, Don and the five CSI's left the Crime Lab to meet up near the Heckscher playground and softball fields at the southern end of Central Park. As it turned out, the Messers had really been blessed by the weather gods for Lucy's birthday party. The afternoon was radiantly sunny, with just a gentle breeze stirring the air and rippling the surface of the Pond. Above the treetops, fair-weather clouds drifted like well-fed sheep across a cerulean sky.

As they approached the chosen picnic site, they heard the calliope tunes of the nearby children's carousel and the clippity-clop of horse-drawn carriages on Center Drive. Between the oak trees in the grove up ahead, Mac suddenly caught a glimpse of two dozen brightly colored balloons tied to a picnic table. He gasped and took an involuntary step backwards, bumping into Jo.

"Hey there, are you _okay_?" she asked and threw her arm around his waist to draw him closer.

"This is just crazy." Averting his eyes, he smiled self-consciously and waited for his racing heartbeat to slow down. "I might have developed a rather unexpected phobia."

"Well, it's about time we desensitized you then." She laced her fingers through his to grip his hand tightly. Then she pulled him gently behind her as she followed the others towards the picnic area. "Because you have_ lots_ of children's birthday parties ahead of you now, Mac."

While Stella and Camille had taken Lucy and her friends to pet the goats, sheep, cows and pigs at the children's zoo, Lindsay and Sheldon were busily setting up for the party. They had already spread out several red-and-white chequered blankets under the oak trees and were now unpacking coolers filled with food and drink on the picnic tables.

"Hey Mac," Sheldon called out cheerfully and waved to him. "Can I just say, you're looking _really_ good today!"

"Thank you, Hawkes," he replied with a smile, before muttering under his breath, "Sheesh, if I had a dollar …"

"… you'd be rich like me," Sid added with a wink, playfully elbowing him.

"Quite right, Sid," Mac replied hesitantly, wondering what made the older man so insightful. "Quite right."

Within minutes, Lindsay had put everyone to work. Danny was meticulously measuring out the starting and finish lines for the potato sack and three-legged races. Sid and Sheldon finished unwrapping the sandwiches and salads, before they began expertly slicing melons for swizzlers and the fruit punch. While Adam and Mac labeled paper plates and plastic cups with the children's names, Don and Jo were busy carefully laying out the colorful props for their pirate play.

When they were all done, Jo walked over to join Lindsay, who sat beside one of the picnic tables. On her way, she noticed Mac filling helium balloons together with Adam and Don.

"What's Mac doing with those balloons?" she asked Lindsay with a frown. "I thought we agreed to try to keep him away from them."

"I know, Jo," Lindsay replied, looking mystified herself. "In fact, I suggested he cut these balloon strings instead. But he just took one look at _these,_" she held up an enormous pair of black-handled shears, "and volunteered for the balloons _himself_."

"Oh, gee whiz." Jo put her hand over her eyes and groaned with embarrassment. "I guess _someone_ needs therapy, after all."

"Oh _really_? Therapy?" Her eyes widening, Lindsay lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'd _never_ have guessed, Jo." She glanced over at Mac, who was wiping the tears from his eyes while he listened to Adam and Don practice their pirate lines after inhaling helium. "On the contrary, he looks so fine today. Well, on the _outside_, that is."

Staring at the younger woman, Jo realized she was about to start a completely unfounded Crime Lab rumor, yet the truth would probably do even more harm.

"But Mac _is_ fine, Lindsay," she replied quickly. "What I meant is _physical _therapy." She pointed to her upper arm. "The bullet wound makes it hard for him to grip things tightly with his right hand."

"Of course, I hadn't thought of that." Lindsay nodded, satisfied with the explanation, before lowering her voice once again. "Jo, can I ask you something personal? How did you manage to get Mac to dress down like that? Would you let me in on your secret? You see, I'd really like Danny to dress _up_ more often."

"Oh, you know how it is," Jo replied vaguely, tapping the side of her nose. "We women can be very persuasive, when we want to be."

At that moment, Stella and Camille returned from the amusement park at Wollman Rink, surrounded by a swarm of children with painted faces, clutching balloon animals and bags of caramel corn. It took a concerted effort by everyone to get them to line up for their food and settle in noisy groups around the picnic blankets.

When Stella finally caught sight of Mac, she smiled and wove her way between the many exhilarated children to greet him. Reaching around his neck, she pulled him closer for a quick kiss on both cheeks.

"Looking good, Mac," she said with a wide grin, studying his complexion. "No two ways about it."

"Feeling good, Stella," he replied with a wry smile, letting her tease him. "No flies on you."

After the children were done eating, Lucy tore open her mountain of presents, garnering admiring 'oohs' from the adults and a few envious glances from her playmates. By far her favorite present, though, was the sparkly green Tinker Bell wings given to her by her godfather.

"Mac!" Lindsay exclaimed, watching Lucy prance around proudly, wearing her new wings. "I thought you said you didn't speak Neverland. You should be in the play, after all."

"I _don't_," he replied quickly, raising his hands defensively. "I had a little help from Jo." He pointed down at his goddaughter, running dizzying circles around him. "Does _this_ mean she likes them?"

Lindsay laughed. "_Likes_ them? She _loves_ them! Now I'm worried that she'll hyperventilate and faint."

"Good thing we brought two doctors and a nurse along with us, then."

When the children were finished playing with Lucy' presents, Jo staged the pirate play under the crown of a large oak tree. Sid, Don, Adam and Lucy mostly improvised their roles, taking cues from the other children. With her fairy wings, Lucy was already dressed for her part as Tinker Bell. Sid had donned an eye patch and a tricorne hat with a skull and crossbones for his part as the evil pirate captain. At the request of their bloodthirsty young audience, the two buccaneers - Don and Adam – ended up stabbing each other ceaselessly with their cardboard swords, raising eyebrows among the CSIs. Before long, though, the many pixie-sized spectators swarmed up to crowd the stage, allowing the adults time for a well-deserved coffee break.

Afterwards, Camille applied sunscreen to the children and handed out temporary tattoos, before Danny and Sheldon began supervising the many relay races. Resting their feet, Jo and Stella sat down together beside one of the picnic tables. Jo looked at the photograph of a smiling baby boy in her hands, with the name Thaddeus Bradley written on the back.

"Oh, I could just eat him up, he's so _gorgeous_, Stella!" she exclaimed. "Mac and I are ready to book our tickets for the christening. You just give us a date."

"Great!" Stella beamed down at the photo of her future son. "I so look forward to showing the two of you around New Orleans."

"Mac will make a _great_ godfather," Jo replied. "Just ask Danny and Lindsay." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Sheldon exchange smiling glances with his wife, his hand sliding down over her stomach.

"Jo, about the name I've picked for my son," Stella continued, looking concerned. "I realize it's a little _awkward_, you know, since Mac and I have a … history. But I've always liked this particular name. I guess I blame my Catholic upbringing. "

Jo turned the photo over to read the name written on the back. "Well, I can certainly see why you would want to give little Thad Brad a new name. You know, I nearly ended up as Josephine Josephson myself."

"It would really mean a lot to me if you're okay with the name."

"Oh but _Stella_," Jo replied, wrapping her arm around her shoulder to hug her. "I think it's just so _sweet_, you naming your son after one of his godparents. It's not awkward _at all_. In fact, it's an honor. You _definitely_ have my blessing."

"Thanks so much, Jo. I really appreciate it."

Jo walked over to Mac, who was staring at Adam dispensing Kool Aid and popcorn to the children.

"Hey, what's up?" she asked, handing him a plate of pink, frosted birthday cake.

"I guess I'm worried about Adam," he sighed and picked up the plastic spoon. "Could you check the staff regulations for a way to give him extra time off? Or even better, some counseling?"

"Oh, really?" Jo looked at the young tech, who now had stuck popcorn to his face using Kool Aid, to the delight of the children. "He looks perfectly fine to me."

"Today … I saw some ... _drawings_ … that just …" His mouth stuffed with cake now, Mac shook his head, unable to put his concerns into words. "I think he might be trying to deal with a _seriously_ messed-up childhood."

"Hey, that's very considerate of you." She smiled warmly. "I'm sure Adam will appreciate the thought."

Much later in the afternoon, when the children had been picked up by their parents, Don dropped down on one of the picnic blankets and slumped back with a loud groan.

"I just can't do any more of this," he sighed, draping his arm over his eyes.

Danny grinned down at him. "Rough night, huh, Flack?"

"_Tell_ me about it, Messer," he replied wearily. "Serves me right for trying to keep up with Mac."

"That's funny," Danny chuckled, "since Jo told me Mac claims _he_ was just trying to keep up with _you_."

Standing close by, Sid's eyes widened and he felt his cheeks heat up._ "Oh, my!"_

He looked around and quickly located Adam standing inside a potato sack. "I would like to change my bet."

Glancing furtively around him, Adam pulled a pencil and sheet of paper from his back pocket. When he had unfolded it, Sid pointed to one of the eleven numbers on the list.

"But that's a _threesome_, Dr. Hammerback!" Adam squeaked out loud, his blush spreading right up to the tips of his ears. He quickly lowered his voice. "Given how much you've got riding on this," he whispered, "you really ought to consider your bet very carefully."

With a knowing smile, Sid tapped his finger against the side of his nose. "Oh, I think I know what I'm doing, Adam."

Watching the Medical Examiner leave, Adam quickly changed his own modest $100 bet, as well.

A half and hour later, when they were done clearing up, Mac sat down wearily on the blanket next to Don. With a yawn, he stretched out his arms and soon ended up rolling backwards to lie down beside him. While he lay on his back, his fingers laced together behind his head, Don slept on his side facing him, his knees drawn up. When Jo and Stella arrived, Danny was already holding up his cell phone at them, trying to find the perfect angle for a snapshot.

"What _are_ you doing?" Jo asked, looking intrigued.

"Just spreading out the bets in our office pool a little," he replied, preoccupied with the buttons on his phone. "Now I've just got to work out how to remove Mac from the 'All Staff' recipient list."

Sheldon joined them, his arm slung around his wife's waist. "You're playing a dangerous game there, Danny."

Grinning, Stella bent down with her hands on her knees to take a closer look. "Yeah, but they do look kind of _cute_, don't they?"

"They're just _adorable_," Camille agreed with a soft smile.

"I've never seen anything cuter in my entire life," Lindsay added, laughing out loud.

"Yeah, but are you talking about _them_," Danny protested, "or their matching Hello Kitty tattoos, courtesy of our daughter?"

"What do you mean, _matching_?" With a grin, Lindsay pointed down at Don's cheek, "_That's_ Hello Kitty," and then she pointed to Mac's forehead, "and _that's_ Mimmy." She turned to face her husband, her hands on her hips. "C'mon, Danny, even _Mac_ knows the difference."

"What do you mean, _even_ Mac?" the head of the Crime Lab interrupted, making everyone burst out laughing.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p><em>Five weeks later<em>

With a sigh, Jo lowered the newspaper to her lap and pushed her reading glasses up onto her brow. Right now, the Big Apple was baking at over 100 degrees, leaving the newly elected mayor to deal with congested roadways, smog alerts and power outages. By the weekend, the asphalt had already been hot enough to blister dogs' paws, prompting kids to try to open fire hydrants and fry eggs on sidewalks. New Yorkers were being urged to avoid strenuous outdoor activities and to keep an eye on young children and elderly neighbors. All over the city, people sought relief by flocking to overcrowded swimming pools, loitering in air-conditioned stores and aimlessly riding the subway.

Glancing up at the sun shining fiercely in the azure sky above her, Jo wished they'd had the foresight to pack a beach umbrella. She closed her eyes and sat for a few minutes just listening to the ocean breeze slap waves against the posts of a nearby boardwalk. Then she slowly let her gaze drift from the empty beach across the glistening water to the endless horizon, where seagulls were circling each other languidly.

She raised a hand to shield her eyes while she admired the sleek 60-foot yacht anchored a hundred yards from shore. On deck, a stunning blonde lay on her stomach, staring across the water while kicking her feet lazily in the air. When her friend handed her a pair of binoculars, a peal of girlish giggles floated across the Atlantic surf.

His back turned to the afternoon sun, Mac stood a few yards into the shallows with his arms wrapped across his chest. He was clad in a navy polo T-shirt and wore his faded denims rolled up to just below his knees. Jo marveled at how fast he had tanned in two days, apart from the white scar just visible beneath his right sleeve. For the past half hour, he had been watching Don swim lazy strokes around the yacht, to the delight of the two women onboard.

Behind them, their rented oceanfront house rose up over the rolling sand dunes. Don had picked the spectacular East Hampton property not just for its privately accessed beach, but also for its panoramic view of a nearby golf course. He'd already spent an afternoon explaining the subtleties of the game to Mac, while they stood with their bare feet propped against the wrap-around balcony, sharing a single lite beer.

Hearing someone call her name, Jo turned around to see Stella approach with a frosted pitcher in her hand. While Jo was diffidently swathed in a silk sarong, Stella wore her striking olive green and gold bikini unselfconsciously. Stella sat down on a beach towel beside Jo and poured them each a glass of ice-cold lemonade. Jo took a grateful sip and picked up her folded copy of the New York Times again.

"_A month of Sundays_," she sighed, savoring each word on her tongue. Since Mac's release from hospital, they had spent all of their Sundays together, mostly – but not exclusively – in his bedroom. Now the thought of a whole _month_ of Sundays made her heart skip a beat, since that would mean actually moving in together.

"Easy. _Eon_," Stella replied. Seeing Jo's surprise, she shrugged her shoulders lightly and laughed. "Hey, it's Greek."

"Hmm." Jo frowned and jotted down the crossword answer. "Okay, how about _letters from your parents_."

"_DNA_," Stella replied without hesitation.

"_Cultural dish_?"

"_Petri_. Hey, I thought you said it was difficult."

"Showoff." Jo grinned. "What about _flies on a string? _Seven letters_._"

"Hmm." Stella screwed up her face and thought for a moment. "Now, that would either be _fishing_," she suggested, pointing at Don first, before moving her finger to point to Mac, "or _balloon_."

"Great," Jo replied, filling a few more letters in the puzzle, "only two more clues to go now. The first is _frenemy_. Five letters."

Baffled, the two women stared at each other for a moment.

"Well, I'm stumped," Stella replied at last, her hands defiantly on her hips. "Is that even a real word?"

"It's Greek to me, Stella."

Stella laughed again. "Believe me, Jo, it's _not_ Greek."

"Okay, let's just skip to the last one. _Fleetwood's raincoat_. Three letters."

"You've _got_ to be kidding! It actually says that?"

As she filled in the obvious answer, Jo glanced up at the man standing in the water with his back to them. "Listen, Stella, he's gone all quiet now," she said, pointing to Mac.

"Why, you're _right_," Stella gasped, looking up at him. "I hadn't even noticed."

"All that running around in the sand must've tired him out."

"So he _did_ need another nap, after all." Stella shook her curly head in disbelief. "And to think we've been taking turns all morning, trying to get him to sleep."

"How in the world _does_ Mac _do_ it?" Jo marveled, before adding wistfully, "I could really have used that kind of magic when my kids were little."

"I have no idea," Stella sighed, "but I've always known he was a natural."

"My thoughts exactly." The two women exchanged glances and their lips curled into knowing smiles. "My thoughts _exactly_."

Rolling his eyes behind his shades, Mac turned his head slightly to remind them that he was well within earshot. Yet he refrained from commenting and kept his back dutifully turned towards the sun. In the shimmering haze ahead of him, the blonde woman climbed halfway down the boat ladder to ruffle Don's hair admiringly with her hand.

"I _do_ believe Flack has a _date_," Stella remarked with a broad grin. "I wonder if she realizes he's actually a homicide detective. I don't recall seeing his badge around his neck when he set out for his swim."

"Well, given the house we're staying at," Jo pointed over her shoulder, "she probably thinks he's a Wall Street corporate raider. I can certainly see how _that_ could add a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to his natural charm."

"That reminds me," Stella replied, "I left Ellie sunbathing by the poolside. She said she didn't want to risk witnessing any 'hanky panky between old folks', as she put it."

"Sheesh," Jo sighed, rolling her eyes, "that girl really has too much imagination. I'm sure it's actually just because the Wi-Fi doesn't extend down to the beach."

Now Don swam back towards the shore, before rising out of the water to wade across the shallows to where Mac stood. Flashing his widest grin, he turned to wave to the two women on the yacht, who'd been following him with their binoculars. Then he turned back to face the man standing before him.

"Now who's being such a good boy, then?" he cooed softly with a wide grin. "You've had everyone fussing over you all morning, you little rascal, you."

Smiling back at him, Mac finally turned around, and together with Don he carefully lowered the toddler in his arms towards the rippling waves. As they walked back to shore together, they let the squealing boy's feet skim the crests, holding him just high enough to keep his diaper dry, before delivering him into his mother's outstretched arms.

While Stella toweled off his feet, the giggling boy played peek-a-boo with his admiring audience over her shoulder. When Jo gave him a small sip of his mother's lemonade, though, his eyelids began to droop and his thumb slipped into his mouth. After a quick nose-to-nose cuddle, Stella scooped her sleepy son up to carry him back for his nap.

"I'll see if I can persuade Ellie to keep an eye on Joseph while he's sleeping."

Yet her son refused to let go of his godfather's fingers and had Mac trailing obligingly behind the two of them all the way back to the house.

"What a darling little boy," Jo sighed wistfully as she watched them leave, "I'm just _so_ envious." Then she shook her head and straightened her back. "Actually, I'm glad babies don't interest Ellie at all. I'm still too young and sexy to become a grandmother anytime soon."

Don grinned over at her and gave her a wink. "In that case, what are you doing wearing a _sarong_, Jo?"

Jo blushed and looked away at the horizon. "It's just been too long since I worn my bikini last. It must have shrunk in the wash." When her gaze fell on the yacht, she seized the opportunity to change the subject. "Tell me, have you got yourself a date, Don?"

Nodding happily, he picked up one of the beach towels to dry his hair. "Before you ask, I _did_ tell them I'm NYPD. They really dig the scar." He pointed to the side of his head.

Jo laughed. "But what exactly do they need the binoculars for? Can they just not get enough of you?"

"Actually, they're checking Mac out. I told them he was my wealthy older brother, the owner of this house. That instantly made him hot in their eyes."

"But he's been holding a _baby _all this time!" Jo spluttered in disbelief.

"Oh, that didn't seem to bother them at all. Quite on the contrary. Apparently, it appeals to some women's maternal instinct, or so I've been told."

"What!" she exclaimed, her hands on her hips. "Mac told us he was just keeping his little G.I. Joe out of the sun."

"Oh, he's _so_ enjoying himself, Jo." Don laughed and poked her with his elbow. "You wouldn't know, since he's been keeping his back to you."

At that moment, Mac came strolling back across the scorching hot sand and waded into the surf to cool his feet, oblivious to the their conversation. Don looked questioningly at Jo, who drew two fingers slowly across her throat. The detective nodded his grim understanding of his new assignment.

"Ten-four, Jo." He stood up and gave her a mock salute. "The man is going _down_."

Hearing a gasp behind her, Jo turned and saw a wide-eyed Stella clasp her hands over her mouth, staring over Jo's shoulder. Then a yell and loud splash made her whip her head back in time to see the two men topple backwards into the waves, until only a hand stuck out of the water. Mac came up first - gasping for air - and staggered to his feet, while holding his father's watch to his ear to check if it was still ticking. Don surfaced much farther from shore, at a safe distance from the man he had just tackled. Wiping the water from his eyes with his fingertips, Mac splashed onto the beach and handed his watch and shades to Jo for safekeeping.

"Don is _so_ dead," he fumed while he tugged his soaking wet polo shirt up over his head. "He's dead."

He crashed back into the surf and dove into the waves after Don, who was swimming towards the yacht again. In no time, however, Mac's steady strokes had him catching up with the younger detective. When he saw the older man plowing through the water behind him, the grin evaporated from Don's face, and he quickly heaved a lungful of air. First his feet disappeared down beneath the waves, then Mac's.

Staring across the empty water, Jo and Stella found themselves exchanging puzzled glances with the two women on the yacht. After a very long minute, Mac finally surfaced again, and then Don, a few yards away from him. Gurgling with laughter, Mac's head kept going under, and for a moment Jo actually worried he'd drown. Don, on the other hand, didn't look in the least amused.

"Grow up, will ya, Mac?" they heard him complain, before he set off in the direction of the yacht again, with Mac following behind him.

"It looks like your plan just backfired, Jo," Stella observed, pointing out to sea. "They're both swimming towards the boat now."

As the two men approached the yacht, the two women onboard lowered their binoculars and began squealing and clapping their hands with delight. Both men grabbed ahold of the bottom rung of the boat ladder, while they caught their breath again. Above them, the women knelt down and began beckoning them enthusiastically to come aboard.

"What on earth is going _on_ out there?" Jo demanded, crossing her arms to drum her fingers against her biceps. She saw the two detectives glance up to talk to the women, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Her face darkened and her lips curled down into a frown. "Damn it, I'm going to have to get into the water after all, aren't I?"

Without waiting for a reply from Stella, she peeled off her sarong and strode briskly across the beach. Her breath hitched as she waded into the icy Atlantic surf, but the thought of Mac steeled her resolve, and she dove into the next wave.

In the water beside the yacht, Don turned his head and watched her plunge into the ocean.

"You owe me a beer, Mac," he announced with a grin, pointing over his friend's shoulder.

Mac turned his head and began swimming back towards Jo.

"Mac Taylor!" she called out sternly, as soon as he was within earshot. "Where do you get off, letting yourself be ogled at by strange women?"

He slowed down to tread water, looking surprised. "What on earth are you talking about? _Them_?" He pointed over his shoulder at the yacht. "They're only interested in Don. They think he owns the house."

"But he said he told them _you_ own the house," she protested, her confusion mounting. "That you're actually … _flirting_ … with them." Slowly, it dawned on her that she'd been played by Don.

"Does that sound like _him_? Does that sound like _me_?" Mac put an arm around her waist and pulled her up against his body. "Don't believe everything that man tells you," he added with a smile. "He just wanted to see your bikini. He's been going on about it for _weeks_ now, driving me insane."

He paused to throw an admiring glance down at her bikini. "Actually, _this_ is going to drive me insane now." He kissed her lips and chin softly before continuing downwards. "Don't go away, I'm just going to take a closer look."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head back, while his kisses trailed down her throat and across her collarbone. Feeling him continue under water, she giggled and cradled his head with her hands, while effervescent bubbles from his breath caressed her body. When he ran out of oxygen, he broke to the surface with a breathless smile.

"We'd better behave ourselves," he reminded her, catching her look of disappointment.

Nodding reluctantly, she kissed him one last time before they began to swim back to shore, with Mac doing lazy backstrokes in front of her. Suddenly, he caught sight of something over her shoulder, and his eyes widened in surprise. With an ominous sense of déjà vu, Jo turned her head and saw one of the women holding her hand to her ear, making a call-me sign to him.

"Mac, _behave_," she reminded him with mock outrage, while he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

As they waded across the shallows, the happy hoots of laughter continued behind them. Jo turned around and frowned with disapproval. Now both women were lying down with their arms outstretched, still trying to coax Don to come up and join them.

"What in the world would make grown women act like that?" she demanded.

"_This_." Mac threw a wet bundle onto the sand, which she immediately recognized as Don's board shorts. "That ought to keep him out of my hair, at least for now."

Together, they walked over to Stella and picked up towels to dry themselves off before sitting down beside her. Hearing the cheers from the yacht grow louder, they all looked up to see Don climb the ladder as naked as the day he was born.

"Well, I'll be damned." Mac's eyebrows shot up and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I had _not_ seen that coming."

Stella and Jo's smiles widened across their faces, while they kept their eyes riveted to the yacht.

"You know, Stella, I'm _so_ glad our children aren't watching this."

Standing up on deck now, Don turned around to face his colleagues on the beach and bowed with an exaggerated flourish, before the women wrapped a towel around his waist. Jo and Stella waved back gleefully, while Mac slumped backwards onto the sand with both hands clamped over his eyes.

"Ugh. That was _oversharing_," he groaned out loud from behind his fingers. "I think I've gone mercifully blind now."

When he finally opened his eyes again, he saw Jo and Stella slap their hands together in a high-five up above his head.

"You owe me a beer, Jo," Stella sighed.

"I don't _believe_ this," he exclaimed incredulously, his eyes darting between their smiling faces. "You two actually _bet _on this happening?"

Stella pointed to Don's shorts lying in the sand. "C'mon, Mac. We knew _one_ of you would end up doing something childish like that."

"Actually, we were both hoping it'd be _Don_," Jo added with a chuckle.

Mac opened and closed his mouth without a sound.

"Well, it's nothing we haven't seen before, is it now?" Stella laughed, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Sheesh." As his cheeks began to glow, Mac rolled onto his stomach. "I'm so glad we brought Ellie and Joseph along to chaperone us," he huffed, trying in vain to work out who had been played by whom. "They raise our average mental age _considerably_."

With a sigh, he picked up Jo's reading glasses and held them before his eyes while he looked down at her folded newspaper. Whereas Stella remained sitting up to enjoy the balmy breeze, Jo lay back on the towel beside him and stretched her arms dreamily above her head. Catching Mac's eyes slide over to stare at her bikini, she mouthed, "_behave_" to him with a smile. To keep his mind off her curvaceous body, he began to study the incomplete crossword puzzle instead. Neither woman noticed the shadow flit across his face when he recognized the missing word that formed a cross with his own name.

An hour later, Stella glanced down at the two people lying quietly beside her, their fingers modestly entwined. While Jo wore Mac's shades against the glare of the sun as she sunbathed, he had donned her reading glasses, apparently intent on reading every single section of the Sunday paper. _They're going to be just fine_, Stella thought with a smile. _They're acting like a married couple already._ Her work as his designated health care agent was obviously done.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p><em>One week later<em>

When he strolled into his office early Friday morning, Mac's brows furrowed at the sight of fifteen large grocery bags crowding his desk. If his balloon ordeal had taught him anything, it was to be vigilant of what might seem innocuous, yet was completely out of place. With alarm bells already ringing shrilly in his head, he spun around to scan the empty corridor behind him with a frown. His hand had already picked up his desk phone, ready to dial building security, when something familiar about the bags made him hesitate for a second.

He slowly replaced the receiver and instead picked up a pencil to pry open the closest grocery bag. When he saw what was inside, his jaw dropped open and he sat down on his chair abruptly. Feeling slightly lightheaded, his mind raced as he calculated the nearly six-figured sum total of the content. His thoughts inevitably drifted to Jo, and he realized he already knew how he was going to spend it.

As fortune would have it, Mac alone had been imaginative enough to bet on the unlikeliest permutation of them all, no. 12. _Nothing happened_.

* * *

><p>-oOo-<p>

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: The Wikipedia entry that Adam and Danny are reading actually exists. Have a look! :D<p>

Just so I don't leave anyone high and dry now that the story is finished, the crossword answer that Mac worked out is part of this story's title.

_Take care out there,_

_Swarovski ;D_


End file.
